


a dream is a soft place to land

by Hornet394



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Girls Kissing, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, Lesbian Sex, Misunderstandings, Non-Binary Jean Prouvaire, Oral Sex, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Protests, Rule 63, Sex, Sex Toys, Vaginal Fingering, Violence, bahorel feuilly combeferre and courfeyrac also get gender changes, cus the protests lmao, enjolras with stomach chub and chubby combeferre because we love diverse body types here, oh and feuilly and montparnasse were foster siblings, oh right they're all in london and they're british, ripped but still not pretty r
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2020-12-31 01:57:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21042347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hornet394/pseuds/Hornet394
Summary: Enjolras has a dirty little secret. Once a month she meets R, and they fuck. Their masks stay on and their names are the last thing they'd exchange.It's all going well until Bahorel brings her friend, Grantaire, to one of their meetings.





	1. young wild girls

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly just inspired by Aaron's cover of Young Wild Girls in Irving Plaza lmao  
Also stole the masked night idea from 16 lies and counting's Bal Masque, written by Sunfreckle, found here on ao3
> 
> this was betaed like. months ago so im just going to wing it and post it lmao

Enjolras has a dirty little secret. Not even Combeferre knows, and they’ve been living together for three years. Courfeyrac boasts that she knows every single haunt that is worthy of their attention in town, but it’s a slight exaggeration. At least, Enjolras thinks Courfeyrac doesn’t know about this.

There’s a club three tube stations away, near Chinatown. It’s a regular club most of the time - Courfeyrac was the one that had brought Enjolras there once, during a club crawl, but she doesn’t think Courfeyrac remembers it anymore.

But on the first Saturday of every month, Enjolras slips into the bathroom after Courfeyrac had gone to some kind of party, and she slips into one of the few dresses she owns and steals some of Courfeyrac’s glitter on the way in. Combeferre’s always holed up in her room doing some kind of revision when Enjolras sneaks out of the flat. 

On the first Saturday of every month, Enjolras, who avoids clubs unless she absolutely has to go, slips into Patron-Minette willingly. Jehan is always there as well, waiting for her outside. Unlike her, their costume and make-up are always impeccable and elaborate. Jehan always threatens(?) to dress up Enjolras just once for occasions like these, but the problem with elaborate costumes is that they’re a nightmare to get out of to fuck, and not everyone has the luxury of having a boyfriend with his own flat where Jehan can refresh themselves in lying around the corner.

Tonight Jehan is dressed up Alice in Wonderland style, dainty blue dress and a white overall on top, shining leather shoes and knee high stockings. “That’s going to get dirty really quickly,” Enjolras points out, tucking a loose strand of hair back behind their ear.

“We probably won’t be staying for long,” Jehan giggles, “It’s ‘Parnasse’s birthday tomorrow, and the boys have something planned in the VIP area. Besides, the aim is to get it dirty by the end of the night.” They wink at Enjolras’ eye roll, and tugs her inside the club.

Montparnasse is leaning against the wall close to the door, his mask already in place. His suit seems to be a cross between the Mad Hatter and the White Rabbit, but his mask is fuzzy and white with two rabbit ears sticking out on top. He nods to her in polite greeting, but his attention, as always, instantly lands on Jehan.

“Get your mask on,” Jehan says, letting Montparnasse slip on their rabbit mask for them, “I want to get at least one dance with you before you disappear.”

The Masked Night of Patron-Minette has a fancier name, but Montparnasse doesn’t care to remind her, so Enjolras doesn’t remember. It’s just what it is: a night of masked people in a club.

Enjolras’ mask is always the red and golden one: a comfortable, simplistic design that rests on her face, hiding most of her features and helping her blend in. Jehan hooks one of their hands into the crook of Montparnasse’s elbow, and the other interlocks with Enjolras’ fingers. This isn’t her element, not yet, so she’s always happy to let Jehan lead.

Jehan orders a cocktail for her and she knocks it down, the unfamiliar sensation of alcohol rushing down her throat and stomach and she has to lean against the bar a bit. But Jehan is impatient and they’re wrenching her into the crowd again.

The music is something of the club’s own creation: heavy beats, veering at the edge of metal but not yet, not to that level of intoxication this early in the night. Jehan leads Enjolras right into the music, the way Enjolras needs, and loses her in it.

The alcohol is burning through her body, and then there’s Jehan’s body heat, pressing tight around her as the music surges through the venue. Underneath her mask, she can cease to be Enjolras for a night. No one is expecting her to keep up her good grades, no one is expecting her to take charge, no one is expecting her to have all the answers to the questions of the world. No one is expecting her to change the world or to spout quotes from philosophers from the last 20 centuries. It isn’t like she doesn’t like doing all of those things, but here no one looks at her and goes, _ Oh, that’s Enjolras for you, of course she’s doing [insert thing]. _

In Patron-Minette there is only the dance and the music and the mask that adorns Enjolras’ face. Montparnasse comes to collect Jehan when the music rakes even higher, and Enjolras allows herself to spin even faster, deep into the crowd. There is no pause, never a pause when you are dancing in the Masked Night. There is no talking, no laughter, no arguments, just the music.

An Egyptian queen dances with her a while, leaving black lipstick marks over her neck before flitting away. She’s squashed between two men for a few intoxicating minutes, or maybe hours; time loses its meaning after a while. There’s a man who sidles up to her and whose hands wander a bit further than appropriate, and she stomps on his foot and throws herself into the crowd again.

Heavy bass ricochets into the dance floor, and Enjolras joins in the answering roar of the crowd. She turns away a girl who wants to make out sloppily with everyone in a three mile radius, and heads towards the bar, her throat dry despite not having made a sound the whole night - or perhaps she had and hadn’t noticed.

She gulps down her lime cider like a drowning woman, and the glitter on her neck comes off onto her hands as she wipes the sweat away. The bar is close to, but still detached from the dance floor, and its location gives her respite from the insanity happening in the club. From here she can see the DJ booth, one of Montparnasse’s friends manning it, features obscured with huge black shades, lost in the music just like the people underneath him.

Now that she’s apart from the crowd, she can register how crazy it is for someone like her to be in a place like this. Every month she goes through this stage of denial, that realization of _ fuck, this isn’t who she is _. Fuck, what would Combeferre say if she knew Enjolras was sneaking out without letting anyone know? What would Courfeyrac say if she knew Enjolras had been turning down every invite for clubbing but was going to this?

She eyes the crowd again, dubious if she could slide back in naturally without Jehan guiding her. Jehan must already be up in the VIP area, for they somehow have a sixth sense as to when they need to intervene, but they’re not around this time.

Then Enjolras sees her. Leaning against the bar, olive eyes appraising, as if she had been waiting for Enjolras all night long. She’s dressed in jeans and a black tank top tonight, her mask the same flimsy paper one she always wears: a white cardboard cut-out. That’s the thing about R, you see. Entirely predictable, yet always catching Enjolras off guard.

Sometimes she slides up to Enjolras like a thief while she is dancing, drugging Enjolras with her kiss, the slide of her hands up Enjolras’ sides caging her in and anchoring her. Sometimes she holds her hand out, palm up, acting as the most gallant of knights asking her lady to a dance, usually at the beginning of the Night. Sometimes, if Montparnasse isn’t around and Jehan stays by Enjolras’ side, R doesn’t appear at all.

But some nights she’s waiting like this, alcohol in her hand, watching Enjolras long before Enjolras notices her. It should be creepy - it is, but R is something irresistible, just like the Masked Night. Enjolras needs both of those things.

Enjolras knows the moment R realizes Enjolras has spotted her, because her lips, the only thing unobstructed by the mask, do a slight quirk, and she slides out of her seat by the bar with the grace of a cat. Enjolras stays where she is, fingers curling around an empty glass.

“Aphrodite.” Her voice is startlingly clear, and the music becomes background noise as Enjolras loses herself in something better.

She and R have a long-standing reservation with the motel nearby. One night each month. They don’t remove their masks the whole night. She is only Aphrodite to R, no matter how much she detests the nickname, and R is only R to her.

It must have been the second or third Night she had gone to when R had come up to her, that infuriating name already falling from her lips. 

_ “Of august gold-wreathed and beautiful Aphrodite I shall sing to whose domain belong the battlements of all sea-loved Cyprus where, blown by the moist breath of Zephyros, she was carried over the waves of the resounding sea on soft foam.” _

It had been so out of place that Enjolras had forgotten where she was for a split second. R had smiled at her wickedly, but then Enjolras had sidestepped R’s wandering hands. _ “Aphrodite was prevented from stopping there by the sons of Poseidon, who were arrogant and insolent, whereupon the goddess, in her wrath, brought a madness upon them.” _

She had been helping Cosette with her literature essay the other day - this errant quote that had hung at the back of her head delights the woman in front of her. “What other kind of music do you sing, Aphrodite?” R had purred, and Enjolras had spent the rest of the night half-grinding against the other woman, feeling strong muscles hidden under the loose shirt and jeans. The other half of her was engaged in heated debate, jumping from Greek mythology to Cicero to Mearsheimer to Buzan, back to the continued existence of religion to Gwen John to Nigel Farage, veering off briefly to argue about the effectiveness of universal healthcare and whether the red poppy was still an appropriate symbol of First World War commemoration.

Enjolras had become completely engrossed in their arguments and in the process become completely engrossed with the woman who was talking to her. R was well-read and intelligent, following her every strand of thought, whereas she would have lost even Combeferre long ago. R had a rebuke for everything Enjolras said until the point in which Enjolras was sure R was arguing against her for the sake of arguing.

So, because R was such a huge cynic, Enjolras just _ couldn’t _ leave. She couldn’t leave without proving to R that she was so completely wrong with her conclusions, that the world was still beautiful and hopeful even if the people in it were miserable and pathetic, and even if the people in it were miserable and pathetic it did not mean they could not love or be loved.

Then R had suggested taking their discussion to somewhere more private, and by the time Enjolras had realized that they had very different definitions of discussions, she was too distracted by R’s head between her thighs to complain.

The next month Enjolras had just been dancing with some woman dressed in a gorgeous purple dress when R had suddenly cut in, this time dressed in a green blouse and leggings. The mask covered most features, but it wasn’t really that hard for Enjolras to recognize the woman that had captured most of her attention last time.

It was made even more annoying by the fact that she couldn’t even tell Courfeyrac and Combeferre about it, about this gorgeous woman who looked like a bodybuilder and spoke with a confidence and intellect beyond anyone Enjolras had ever met, this beautiful woman with the soft black curls that reached her shoulder, who kissed Enjolras like she loved her.

“Hello, Ange,” R purred in lieu of greeting the second night, and Enjolras had almost had a heart attack. “Or perhaps you are a devil, for you tempt even the holiest of women.” 

“If I a snake, where would your Adam be?” Enjolras returned, and R had bent down to kiss Enjolras’ mask where it covers her cheek. Their two marks clanged against each other uncomfortably. “Eve is the one who made the conscious choice to be tempted, after all,” R laughed softly, “Perhaps Adam was unable to make her feel satisfied.”

It opened up another whole debate of free will in Christianity, when both of them were clearly strong atheists, but this is what makes Enjolras so captivated by this enigma in front of her.

Tonight R is approaching her, gaze hot and heavy. Her tank top clings to her skin, teasing at her with hints of her toned abs. She’s slightly taller than Enjolras, and so when she stops in front of her, it’s natural for Enjolras to tilt her head upwards minutely.

A deep, radiant smile blooms on R’s mouth, and she presses a soft kiss to Enjolras’ lips almost carefully, almost intimately, and then her hands are tugging through Enjolras’ own long blonde curls, and the kiss takes a downright filthy turn. R’s tongue licks into her mouth greedily, determined to steal away Enjolras’ last breath. She’s aware she’s making little whimpers against R’s mouth, letting the other woman take as she pleases. A strong hand curls around her waist, pressing her flush against the hard lines of R’s body, and she all but melts.

R is always so strong, so confident, so reliable. Enjolras barely knows what she’s doing in the club scene, and here R is, Enjolras’ saviour every single month. Whisking her away from even Jehan, bringing her to a land where she is a deity only in name, but not Enjolras. And that’s enough.

Her legs are going weak and she clutches at R’s arms as R’s tongue dances in Enjolras’ mouth, her own tongue struggling to keep up. Their mouths part occasionally but R immediately latches on again, the bar digging into Enjolras’ back. R’s mouth tastes of the apple juice she drinks instead of alcohol, a sweet, tangy taste that Enjolras chases.

“Let’s get out of here,” R purrs. She never asks, never questions, she just says it and Enjolras scrambles to follow. That’s what Enjolras can do when she has the mask on her face. She can follow without a word and people won’t give her odd glances, or worse, they wouldn’t automatically fall back and expect her to lead, even when she had no idea of what was going on. And she didn’t know what was going on, with R, with sex. So she was happy to just let R lead.

She shivers when the cold London night hits her, and R presses her against the wall outside Patron-Minette, hands rubbing Enjolras’ arms as if to warm her up, mouth slotting over Enjolras’ over and over again. Enjolras clings to R eagerly, returning every touch with fervour. They do manage to make it to the motel at the end. R has the keys, she always does, and then she’s pressing Enjolras in forcefully, Enjolras nearly tripping in their haste.

She falls onto the bed, and R follows, falling on top of her. Her weight is steady and welcome, her breath hot and intoxicating.

“What do you want tonight, my angel?” R murmurs against her mouth, then sits up to tug at the straps of Enjolras’ dress. “Do you want my mouth on your cunt? My fingers? Tell me, what do you want from me tonight?”

_ Everything _, Enjolras wants to gasp out, but she knows it will earn her nothing but another mocking phrase from R, who will do exactly nothing until Enjolras begs. “Your mouth,” she finally decides on, slipping out of her dress with R’s help, then tugging at the button of R’s jeans. “And mine.”

“Yours first.” R laughs lightly, throwing her tank top somewhere on the floor as Enjolras pulls down her jeans. Enjolras is instantly distracted by the defined lines of R’s abs, and R takes advantage of that and kicks off her jeans as well, leaving them both in their underwear.

They shuffle around awkwardly in the bed for R to lie back against the headboard, legs spread invitingly as she watches Enjolras crawl forward. Enjolras can feel her own panties dampening when she finally nuzzles against R’s thigh, her curls brushing against R’s leg. Then a hand lands in her hair as R helps pull it backwards, the soft pull making Enjolras whimper against R’s skin.

Both of them are quiet people during sex, but Enjolras has come to learn the tells of R’s body. She can hear a soft gasp when Enjolras brushes her lips against the cotton of R’s black panties, a ghost of a kiss. The smell of R is making her drunk quicker than the cider had, and she lets out a desperate sigh as she plants a firmer kiss on R’s clit through the fabric.

The hand in her hair is more insistent now, tugging just on the border of pain, and Enjolras obliges with R’s silent command. R is already glistening when she pushes her panties to a side, and the first kiss she puts directly on skin has R’s thighs tensing against Enjolras’ head. Her fingers dig into R’s legs, holding them apart as she finally presses her whole mouth against R’s cunt. The first taste explodes on her tongue, and she throws all ideas of teasing R out the window and dives her tongue right inside of R’s wetness, her eyes slipping close.

R’s thighs are positively quivering now, hiking up the bedsheets every now and then, then slumping down as Enjolras has her fill of this beautiful, mysterious woman at her disposal. Her breasts have begun to ache, and the fabric of her bra is starting to feel uncomfortable. Enjolras didn’t use to be good at this, this sex thing. She still doesn’t think she is, but R has a way of making her believe that she is.

R is hot and tight around her and it is like tasting ambrosia, Enjolras greedily swallowing everything that R has to give her. R’s soft gasps echo around the room, and Enjolras’ jaw is starting to ache. But she can’t stop, and she’s rubbing her breasts against the sheets underneath her involuntarily. R’s grip on her hair tightens until she’s almost shoving Enjolras’ face into her cunt, eliciting a weak moan from the blonde as she moves her tongue even quicker and deeper into R’s sensitive folds. The edges of her mask must be scraping against R’s skin, and if anything it only serves to make Enjolras lean in even more, to eradicate as much distance as she can. Her tongue flicks against R’s swollen clit, R’s hips making little thrusts in response every time.

When R comes she gives a long moan, fingers clenching into Enjolras’ hair so tightly that Enjolras’ head is wrenched backwards. Underneath her hands she can feel R’s legs tensing up so much, rock hard, and she is honestly not beneath grinding against those thighs, because Enjolras is pretty sure she’s soaked through her panties by now. As R writhes in front of her, Enjolras snakes a hand down and presses it directly over her mound, ripping a moan out of herself that is startlingly loud. 

R gives a weak chuckle at that, and her grip on Enjolras’ hair loosens reluctantly. “Come up, angel,” she murmurs, “Give me a minute and I’ll return the favour.”

Enjolras wipes away some of the fluid from her face and slides R’s sticky panties down her legs, unsubtly using the opportunity to drag her hands over the firm planes of R’s thighs. Enjolras is always torn between utter admiration and envy of R’s body figure. Enjolras had never been a fan of sports, and the only thing she ever watched was Bahorel’s boxing matches. Enjolras is a bit thick in the thighs, a bit more excess body fat along the waist, but Enjolras normally wasn’t as conscious about these superficial, societally constructed standards of beauty. However, it was hard not to be, especially when she had R lying in front of her, open to perusal.

But R always said that Enjolras was beautiful, and she said it with such conviction that Enjolras finds it hard not to believe in. She shimmies her own soaked panties off, aware that R is watching her, eyes striking even with the mask on her face. Enjolras unhooks her bra next, feeling slightly self-consciousness as she throws it on top of her panties. The last to go is the red hairband she has on, hyper-aware that R’s eyes are tracing the movement of her breasts as her arms shift. Ducking from R’s gaze, she crawls up the bed until she is next to R. 

A strong arm snakes around her waist, flipping her onto her back with R straddling her hips. R’s lips are curled up deviously, then she is leaning down and kissing Enjolras again, her tongue sweeping into Enjolras’ mouth and licking up any last traces of herself. Enjolras’ fingers grips at the bedsheets as one of R’s hand cups her right breast, lightly thumbing over the already erect nipple.

“Stop teasing,” Enjolras manages to gasp out when their lips disconnect, “You promised.”

“I am giving you my mouth,” R chuckles, but she pecks Enjolras’ lips one more time and trails her lips downward, down Enjolras’ chin and to her sensitive neck. Enjolras has to close her eyes when she feels teeth teasing at the skin there, where R is sucking at her collarbone, determined to leave a mark. 

“Stop teasing,” Enjolras hisses, dragging one of her hands from the bedsheets to clutch onto R’s hair, trying to push her downwards. She can feel R laugh lightly against her skin, but the other woman obliges. Her clever tongue flicks across Enjolras’ left breast while her hand starts to massage the other.

Enjolras loses herself in R’s ministrations as the woman worships her breasts, alternating between hand and lips. R suckles at her breasts, planting little bruises on the swell of them as her hands grip the flesh firmly, reverently. R’s tongue circles around her nipples, alternating between the two, drawing them into her mouth, leaving them glistening with saliva. Little sighs escape from Enjolras’ mouth as R buries her face in Enjolras’ breasts.

“Let my hair go, Aphrodite,” R’s voice is raspy and Enjolras’ eyes slide open hazily, drunk on pleasure. Her breasts are reddened and she looks like she had been mauled by a bear, bruises a stark contrast from her pale skin colour.

“Kiss me,” Enjolras demands, letting her fingers fall back onto the bedsheets. “Bossy as ever,” R answers, but kisses her languidly all the same. “What do you mean as ever?” Enjolras murmurs against R’s lips, and the other woman laughs, pecking Enjolras’ exposed chin and sliding down the bed to her hips.

“Are you not?” R says back, eyes dropped hungrily to between Enjolras’ legs, “Bossy, that is.”

Enjolras turns her gaze up at the ceiling, but her voice is a bit thick as she grounds out, “I try not to be.”

“I’m sure you do try,” R muses, and Enjolras is about to ask more when hot breath suddenly hits her mound, making her gasp in alarm, her legs quivering in anticipation, and she loses her train of thought. R’s lips touch her inner thighs first, and Enjolras whimpers from the sensation. When R’s fingers go under Enjolras’ legs and lift them onto her own shoulders, Enjolras has to fling her arm over her eyes, but the gush of wetness betrays her arousal.

“Play with your own breasts for me, my Aphrodite.” R’s suggestion leaves no room for objection, and Enjolras shakily lifts her hands to rest them on her own chest. R drags the flat of her tongue from the bottom of Enjolras’ slit up until her clit, ripping a moan from the blonde as her fingers clench around her breasts. Squeezing her eyes shut, Enjolras whines pitifully as her fingers pull at her swollen and aching nipples, much harsher than what R had done. R’s hot breath against her mound sends intense shivers up Enjolras’ body, leaving her light-headed and desperate.

“You’re already so wet,” R says, “All for me.” One of her fingers graze against Enjolras’ clit, and Enjolras does sob out this time, harsh and loud in the room. “All yours,” she gasps out, squeezing her breasts even harder to the brink of pain, hoping it would drown out the frustration.

R’s lips finally land on her mound, tongue digging into her wetness and teasing her clit. Enjolras lets the wave of pleasure take her under, drowning her alive in the most gentle of ways, letting herself fall apart under R’s fingers and R’s mouth and R’s tongue. 

When she finally comes back to herself, R still has her legs on her shoulders, caressing her thighs lightly. Enjolras’ own hands have fallen to the bedsheets again, scrunching them up underneath her fingers. 

“You seem rather strung up today, Aphrodite,” R murmurs, gently putting Enjolras’ legs back on the bedsheets, pushing her over so she’s lying on her side. Enjolras calms down her breathing as R goes back up the bed, cuddling her from behind.

She is strung up. Joly’s new boss is ableist and Combeferre’s been working overtime the whole week. Bossuet is failing his exams (again) and Eponine can’t afford to take anymore sick days, but she can’t find an affordable babysitter either. One of the speakers for next Friday’s event pulled out last minute, and Enjolras had spent the whole day finding a replacement. Marius’ grandfather is pressuring him to go home over Christmas, and Cosette’s mother has some legal disputes with Eponine’s mother and will be going to court next month.

The mask is digging into her nose at this angle, and she can feel R’s paper mask against the back of her neck. Enjolras doesn’t answer R’s question, and nor does R ask any further, just lends her body warmth to Enjolras. 

“You were wrong about Hong Kong, you know,” Enjolras finally says, “Revolutions are never about the people, but the spirit. It doesn’t stop even if Joshua Wong is imprisoned.”

R’s amusement is palpable and she tightens her grip on Enjolras’ waist, amicably settling back into the argument that they had never finished last time.

Enjolras falls asleep at some point while muttering about the dubious legitimacy of an election if it was separated into functional constituencies instead of geographical, and she comes to groggily at around nine in the morning.

R is already gone without even a note left behind. Enjolras takes her mask off and massages the marks it had left behind on her face until she feels functional once more. R always leaves before her, but Enjolras knows that she’ll find her next month again.

//

It’s a slow Thursday afternoon, and Enjolras is in the Musain, waiting for her friends to come in.

“Bahorel’s bringing a friend,” Feuilly says as she slides into her seat, “One of her friends from boxing class.” 

“Oh?” Enjolras asks in surprise. It’s been a while since someone new had come to Les Amis’ intense Thursdays sessions. It’s a lot of planning, bureaucracy, and debating. Most people only came to the Tuesday ones, so it’ll be nice to have a fresh face.

“Yeah, Grantaire’s coming,” Joly interjects happily from Bossuet’s lap. “She did philosophy and fine arts as her undergraduate.”

“She came to one of our rallies early last year,” Bossuet supplies, “Apparently, wouldn’t shut up about the ‘idealistic blonde idiot speaker’. You’ll either hate her or love her, E.”

“Let’s hope it’s the latter.” Courfeyrac snorts, slinging her hands around Enjolras’ neck, “I’d like to go home to a happy Enjy please.”

Enjolras rolls her eyes, but she, too, hopes that she’ll like this Grantaire. 

“What took Bahorel so long, then?” Combeferre asks, then adds teasingly, “I can’t imagine someone staying away for so long after seeing Enjolras in the flesh.”

“Bahorel wasn’t part of Les Amis then, yet, remember,” Joly answers, “And apparently Bahorel just forgot to mention to Grantaire that she joined us? Well, she doesn’t exactly know yet. We just kind of put it as ‘a political group that meets together every Thursday’ when she asked. Part of it is that the mystery of it draws people in, you know. Better not to let her know the ‘idealistic blonde idiot speaker’ is the leader.”

“Misinformation isn’t becoming of you, Joly.” Combeferre laughs lightly, “But we’ll see.”

The rest of the group ambles in closer and closer to 6pm, coalescing together. Marius is agitatedly recounting to Courfeyrac and Enjolras his and Cosette’s visit to her father’s house and how between her two dads, there was always someone glaring at him. Cosette, Jehan, and Eponine seem to be braiding each other’s hair. The dark circles around Eponine’s eyes seem to be growing more and more prominent, and Enjolras makes a note to remind herself to send Courf to check on her later. Montparnasse had only come to drop Jehan off, but it seems Feuilly has accosted him at the door again, part of her continued crusade to get her foster brother to make more friends. Enjolras continually wishes her luck. Combeferre, Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta are at a table of their own talking amicably in quiet voices, Joly still in his boyfriend’s lap.

The jingle of the bell above the cafe door makes Enjolras snap to attention, and Marius cuts himself off as everyone turns their gaze to the entrance. Montparnasse seems to be startled as well, and he uses the chance to slip out the door, Bahorel opening the door wide for him. Behind her is a tall girl in skinny jeans and a graphic t-shirt, black messy curls falling to her shoulders. She seems to be laughing at what Bahorel had said as she steps into the cafe.

A horrible feeling rises from Enjolras’ chest, and her gaze is transfixed even as the rest of the group resumes their conversation. There’s a light touch on her arm but Enjolras cannot turn her head away. The newcomer finally looks away from Bahorel, and olive eyes slide across the room before locking onto her own.

White noise rushes into Enjolras’ ears. Grantaire’s as shocked as she is, and Enjolras knows Grantaire recognizes her. Enjolras slams her papers down onto the table and runs to the bathroom.


	2. a victory march

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras' secret paramour turned out to be not so much a secret after all.

Enjolras remembers asking R - Grantaire once, why she called her Aphrodite. She knew she had an appearance that appealed to modern conceptions of beauty, but naming her the goddess of love and beauty seemed to be a bit reaching.

“The first time I saw you,” R had said, “I thought to myself, I was looking at an angel. You were gorgeous and confident and passionate, and I thought to myself, if I was to believe in something in this world, it would be you.”

Enjolras had thought R was referring to her in the club and had felt shy for a moment, wondering what R had seen to make her think Enjolras was all of those things.

Enjolras feels really sick now. The whole time she thought that - and R had betrayed that trust. R had known who she was, all along. R had  _ seen _ her before, in a rally, and she acted like she had no clue of who Enjolras was. Enjolras thought that R had been her salvation, her little Eden in the corner of the earth, that not even Jehan knew about, but turns out R had knew who she was all along. Enjolras had trusted R with something that she had never done so before, had left herself so vulnerable, had said things she would have never dared utter, but this is how R repays her.

The door opens, and she turns around to see Combeferre there, offering a sympathetic smile. “She’s gone. Do you want Courf and I to lead the meeting?” She asks. Enjolras nods, her motions jerky. Her vision is blurring, and then she’s stumbling forward into Combeferre’s open arms. She’s dimly aware of Combeferre pulling her phone out - perhaps to text Courfeyrac - but she just buries her face in Combeferre’s shoulder and lets out tears of frustration.

When she feels she is composed again, she pats Combeferre on the shoulder and steps back. She must look terrible now, but Combeferre only offers her some tissue. “Do you want to talk about it with me?” She asks lightly, “Or with Courf?”

Enjolras shakes her head, wiping away the last traces of her weakness. “I’ll be fine, Ferre. Let’s go back to the meeting.” She ends up spending the rest of the meeting at one of the back tables, silent, wringing her hands until they’re red and aching, and everyone pretends they don’t want to look back at her. Bahorel isn’t there either.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre automatically come to flank her when she stands up at the end of the meeting. Courfeyrac is dying to ask questions, Enjolras can see it in her eyes, but she shakes her head weakly and Courfeyrac wilts, keeping quiet.

Courfeyrac keeps the drive home entertained, blasting her music and singing at the top of her lungs, perhaps a bit too loudly, next to Combeferre. Halfway through the ride Enjolras takes her phone out and replies to some of her emails half-heartedly, forwarding some to those of the group who were in charge of those particular areas. There’s a text message from Bahorel, and she frowns as she taps on it.

_ u okay? let me know how to help _

It was sent a good hour ago, and she worries her bottom lip as she thinks of how to reply. Does she want help? Yes. Does she think she can ask for help? No. She presses the home button and then taps the text message open again. Back, and then opening the app, back, the app, back. 

“Hey.” Combeferre’s voice startles her and she almost drops her phone onto her lap. “You getting out?” Enjolras looks out the window, and they’re already at their house. “Yeah, sorry.” She mumbles, unbuckling her seatbelt and fumbling with the door. Courfeyrac is already outside, head tilted as she watches Enjolras struggle.

“Help me with the damn door,” Enjolras snarls, annoyed, before realizing that Courfeyrac wouldn’t be able to hear her with the car doors shut. Finally she manages to fling the door open, and drops her phone while climbing out.

It bounces along the cement curb before landing face first on the pavement, and Enjolras lets out a huge “shit!” that’s echoed by Courfeyrac and Combeferre.

“My poor child!” Courfeyrac wails, scooping it up and cradling it to her chest, “How dare your mother mistreat you like this!”

Enjolras pinches the bridge of her nose and storms into the house, making a beeline for her room. She throws her leather jacket onto the bed, then rummages in the dresser for her comfort onesie. It’s a gag gift Courfeyrac got her two or three years back, a black onesie with cat ears and a tail, but ever since one disastrous essay it’s her Enjolras-needs-cuddles-but-doesn’t-want-to-talk onesie. It’s soft and enveloping and a flimsy substitute for companionship, but it’ll do.

She changes into that quickly and flops onto the couch, burying her face in the pillows. Someone sits down next to her head and she scoots upward to rest her head on their lap.

Combeferre’s hand is a comforting weight against her head, petting her curls through the fabric. Some pop music floats into the room as Courfeyrac makes her presence in the kitchen known. The TV goes on at a low volume, showing some no-brainer soap opera. 

Enjolras’ phone is lying innocently on the coffee table between the couch and the TV, and Enjolras stretches a hand out to grab it. The messaging app is open, and she stares at Bahorel’s message a bit longer. Combeferre gently tries to remove her phone from her grasp, but Enjolras moves her hand away.

Before she can regret it, she types out a quick message.

_ Did she know? The whole time? _

Enjolras falls asleep waiting for the reply to come. 

//

When she next wakes both Combeferre and Courfeyrac are on the couch. Combeferre is kind of balancing a book on Enjolras’ head while Courfeyrac’s fingers drag through the ends of her hair, with Enjolras’ legs in her lap. 

She gives a quiet little huff against Combeferre’s book, and she moves it away. “Courfeyrac made spaghetti,” She says quietly, and Enjolras hums in response. Courfeyrac leans down and crushes Enjolras against Combeferre in faint resemblance of a hug, then leaps up and bounds towards the kitchen.

Enjolras spots her phone on the coffee table again, this time even further away, and she reaches a hand out to make grabby motions. Combeferre gives a soft, annoyed sound, but she reaches over and hands Enjolras her phone.

The time tells her that she’s only dozed off for about half an hour, and there’s only one notification on the screen.

_ she said yes _

“Do you feel ready to change back?” Combeferre asks, making her tear her eyes away from the screen, “you might get it dirty.”

Enjolras shakes her head, throwing her phone somewhere on the couch, “I need to wash it anyway.”

But she does sit up, leaning against Combeferre, giving the other girl a big hug. “Thanks, Ferre,” she mumbles against Combeferre’s hair. She can feel Combeferre’s quiet smile against her ear, and then she’s pushing Enjolras to the kitchen towards food.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?” Courfeyrac asks as Enjolras scarfs down the food. She hadn’t realised she was this hungry. Enjolras thinks of the text on her phone, and nods.

She doesn’t talk about everything, of course. It’s a bit difficult to explain why she had been having masked sex with another woman, and she doesn’t mention going to the club at all, but Combeferre and Courfeyrac don’t press the obvious holes in her narration. 

“So, you had repeated one night stands with Grantaire thinking that she didn’t know who you were,” Combeferre summarises, “And today you realise she’d known the whole time it had been you, when you thought you were having anonymous sex.”

Combeferre has the frown on her face when she doesn’t understand what’s going on in Enjolras’ brain, and Enjolras stuffs herself with the food instead of correcting her. She’s not sure how to, anyway.

“The problem was with the consent, Ferre,” Courfeyrac is the one who gets it, “Enj had sex thinking it was wholly anonymous. She didn’t consent to have sex with someone who knew who she was.”

Combeferre hums thoughtfully, but doesn’t say anything else, just passes Enjolras tissue and takes her used plate. “I’m not an invalid,” Enjolras grumbles, but Combeferre just gives her an unimpressed look, then uses her superior height to pat the top of Enjolras’ head condescendingly.

“What are you going to do about it, Enjolras?” Courfeyrac says, pouring coffee for all three of them, “I wouldn’t have pegged a girl to be the reason you stop the revolution.”

Enjolras nurses the mug between her hands, chewing on her bottom lip. The snuggling just now has settled Enjolras much more now, and the text had helped her re-align herself, confirming her questions.

“Nothing.” She finally says, running a finger along the rim of the mug, “It has nothing to do with the ABC. We don’t even know if she- if  _ Grantaire _ wants to come back. At any rate, it seems some of the others already know her and would like her company.”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac exchange another look, and one of Combeferre’s hands come down to scratch behind the fake cat ear on Enjolras’ onesie. “You always do what’s best for the group, Enjolras,” Combeferre says, and her tone seems to indicate there’s something else she wants to say, but she just closes her mouth.

Grantaire does return the next meeting. She slinks in the back with Bahorel, exchanging soft greetings with Joly and Bossuet. The others give cursory glances to Enjolras, but Enjolras fights to keep her countenance normal, and they eventually approach Grantaire to give their own friendly introductions.

Enjolras, for her part, tries her best to pretend she isn’t darting gazes at the woman in the corner of the room as she talks about the logistics of the abortion rally they’re helping with a month later. Grantaire is - R is everything that she imagined and not at all at the same time. She had imagined the face under the mask, had imagined the features that went with those deep olive eyes and full lips, but the image had always been hazy.

The Musain tends to run warmer, and Grantaire ends up shedding her jacket, leaving her in something sleeveless. In the bright, cheerful light of the Musain, Grantaire’s arms draws even more attention. Her strength is not as obvious as Bahorel’s, but Enjolras has had first hand experience of those arms pinning her down, overwhelming her. Grantaire is a gym instructor, she overhears, that’s how she knows Bahorel. She also used to be in the same Latin class as Bossuet before he dropped out.

At the end of the meeting, Courfeyrac nudges her with an elbow and jerks her chin towards the direction of Grantaire. Enjolras glares at her without force but slowly shuffles over to Grantaire’s table.  Grantaire, Bahorel, and Joly all fall silent and look up when she approaches, but she shoves the uneasiness down her throat and sticks her hand out. “Enjolras.” She says, “Nice to meet you.”

Grantaire stares at her hand with an unreadable expression, then at her face. The smile Enjolras tries to keep on her face is getting strained, but finally Grantaire does take her hand. “Grantaire.” She answers, the familiar warmth of her palm making Enjolras bite her lower lip to rein in her reactions.

“So,” She says civilly, sitting down, “What did you think of the meeting?”

Grantaire makes a small noise at the back of her throat. “It was interesting.” Her mouth is tight-lipped, eyes wary. They both know that the next thing to come out of Grantaire will not be something Enjolras will want to hear. No, Enjolras wants to hear it, she only knows that she will not like it.

But of course Grantaire says it anyway. “I simply don’t see the point of your pro-choice rally. The problem isn’t with the people, but the white men who sit in the Parliament. You’re preaching to the choir, nothing more.”

“The problem is in the system,” Enjolras narrows her eyes, “But is the system not made of people? The white men you generalise are not and will not be exempt from humanity. If they forget to represent the people, then we will remind them. It is their duty as our representatives and us as people of this society. The rally is our cry, and their reminder.”

“I heard your spiel, Aphrodite-”

“Don’t call me that!” She hisses out, perhaps a bit louder than she should. The rest of the room falls silent, and an unreadable expression flits over Grantaire’s face.

“I heard your spiel,  _ Enjolras _ ,” She resumes, “But you must be a greater fool than I presumed if you think a rally is going to change anything. Your participants will be female or those who already sympathize with the female populace. Those who do not listen will simply tune you out, at best. At worse they will think you and your band of feminists disruptions to society, nuisances. White men rose to where they are by ignoring the voices of the minority, and they will continue to ignore it if it doesn’t concern their interests. The walls of the system are firm and won’t fall just because people march against it.”

“Then we make it their interest!” Enjolras says, leaning forward, “How do we know the walls are strong if we don’t batter against it? Our rally will be the spear, the focal point for the people to channel their energy into. Protests galvanise the people, and if there is enough people, they won’t be able to ignore us!”

“You have far too much faith in the people,” Grantaire slinks further into her chair, “You talk as if the people will pour out of their homes to join you, when it’s clear that they’ll just shut their windows and doors and pretend you don’t exist. Give it a week; No one will remember those few hours of wasted time.”

Enjolras’ voice is raising again, and she hates it, she hates it when people think raising their voices equates a stronger argument, but  _ everything _ about Grantaire frustrates her. “Then we do it again,” She growls, “Over and over again, and the people will come to recognize the injustice dealt on us. A government who does not show a capacity to listen to the people will be replaced.”

“What an idealistic world you live in,” Grantaire spits out, also getting visibly agitated, “The painful truth is that not even women care about the rights to their own vagina. This rally of yours isn’t going to change anything, only that more and more people will recognize the futility of all this.”

“On principle, progress has never come with doing nothing,” A firm voice interjects, and they both look up to see Combeferre standing at their table, Enjolras’ bag clutched to her chest, “And dinner doesn’t cook itself either. It’s getting late and neither you have eaten. We can continue this over dinner.”

Enjolras is about to open her mouth to decline, but Grantaire beats her to it. “I think not,” She tells Combeferre, standing up, “Places to go.”

Enjolras watches her go, lips pursed, feeling like she had just missed something very important. 

“Do you think she’ll come back next week?” She hears Joly ask in a small voice.

A hand taps her on the shoulder, and she whips around to see Bahorel looking at her, a flinty look in her gaze. “What do you think, Enjolras?”

Enjolras stares back blankly. 

“That’s none of my concern.” She finally forces out, shrugging off Bahorel’s hand and sweeping out of the Musain.

//

“You need to apologise to Bahorel.” Combeferre is telling her.

Enjolras knows she’s right, but she also hates that Combeferre is right. Bahorel doesn’t know what was going on between her and Grantaire. Combeferre doesn’t know. She can hear Combeferre sigh through the door, and then Combeferre is probably standing up, finally leaving Enjolras alone. “Dinner’s in the fridge,” She says, “And Jehan said they’ll be coming over later.”

Enjolras unearths herself from the blanket cocoon she’s made, listens as Combeferre leaves the flat. The room is dark, illuminated only by the moon and stars. She doesn’t  _ regret _ what she had said, persay, she never says things she hadn’t meant to say. She just wished she’d said  _ more _ . She wished that they hadn’t ended on such a sour note, because Enjolras didn’t want Grantaire to stop liking her. Didn’t want R to stop liking her.

There’s a light knock on her door, then Jehan is pushing the door open, having much less tact than Combeferre. Enjolras shifts slightly among her nest to watch their light-footed approach. They have denim dungarees over a sequin shirt today, and a formal tie that probably comes from Montparnasse tied loosely around their neck. As couples go, Montparnasse and Jehan are one of the oddest, one a stiff, prim tailor, the other a walking fashion disaster.

“Hey,” Jehan says softly, climbing onto the bed and wrapping themselves around Enjolras’ blanket cocoon. “The dawn comes ever closer.”

Enjolras fixes Jehan with a bleary look. Among Jehan’s many cryptic sentences, this is fairly easy to decipher. “How did you know?” She croaks out. Jehan pats Enjolras’ golden curls soothingly, than tugs at her blanket until Enjolras rolls over to let Jehan curl themselves up in the blanket as well.

“You’re scared of letting Grantaire go,” They say, voice quiet yet echoing in every corner of the dark room, “I could see it in your eyes when she walked out. Why?”

“You know the person I always end up with at the end of... our nights together?” Enjolras says hesitantly. At Jehan’s nod, she sighs out, “It’s Grantaire. I only knew her as R, and we never took our masks off, but she knew who I was when she... when we had sex, but I only found out when she came to our meeting.”

“What the fuck.” Jehan blurts out. Enjolras just shrugs, patting their hand underneath the covers. Jehan’s quiet for a few minutes, and Enjolras rolls onto her back, untangling herself from the blanket. Jehan shuffles closer to Enjolras, wrapping her left arm loosely in their embrace. “A lover in the dark, yet the shadows no longer hide her face.” They murmur. Jehan is remarkably soft today, their words spun like riddles. Jehan has always had this quality on Enjolras, even before they started going to Patron-Minette together. Normally soft-spoken and distracted, the poet had always had a remarkable intuition when it came to dispensing their gentle affections to those who needed comfort and quiet reassurance. 

“A lover, you say?” Enjolras sighs. “Is she not?” Jehan asks instead.

Enjolras purses her lips. “I don’t know.” She answers truthfully. “I wanted her when I didn’t know who she was, because it was easier. Knowing who she is- people are complicated.”

“She became a real person with her own motives, rationales, reasonings,” Jehan agrees, “And you don’t know how to deal with that beyond your obvious physical attraction.”

Enjolras nods slowly. 

“Do you have to deal with it, though?” Jehan presses, “R is someone you are familiar with. Grantaire is not. She doesn’t seem to want to cross that distinction, either.”

Enjolras stays quiet, just turns to meet Jehan’s gaze. 

“Oh, poor thing,” Jehan exhales softly, cupping Enjolras’ cheek soothingly, “You’re in love with R, aren’t you?”

Enjolras nods rapidly, her eyes stinging with sudden tears. “I  _ wanted _ to know her,” She whispers hastily, like bequeathing a secret urgently, “R is so intelligent, so beautiful, god, Jehan, the things she’d say - I  _ wanted _ her like I’ve never wanted anyone before. I had this  _ image _ of her that I wanted to unveil bit by bit, I’d figure her out bit by bit until the day I was prepared to face her like- like  _ equals _ .”

“Poor Enj,” Jehan replies sympathetically, “And now all your plans are disrupted, and you don’t know how to get back on track.”

Enjolras nods, pulling the blanket up to cover her nose and mouth. Enjolras led a structured life, had to, or else she’d be crushed under the sheer amount of things she signs herself up for. Having a schedule meant everything would be done with time to spare, and having plans meant she’d always be control of a situation.

But this? The plan, her expectations, they had crumbled into dust. There was no logic to emotions, to desires. Covetous behaviour is irrational and self-serving. It is a leap of faith, straight into the abyss, but Enjolras had the distinct feeling of being pushed over the edge, limbs flailing.

She hadn’t realized she wanted to know R so badly, until Grantaire had appeared in front of her, so dynamic and full of mystery, everything she had wanted R to really be and everything she had not expected.

“What do I do?” She asks Jehan, hating the way her voice takes on a more vulnerable quality. Jehan purses their lips, thoughtful. “From the very beginning everyone tells me to stay away from Montparnasse,” They say, “Even Parnasse himself. Everyone gave me this image, this first impression that I believed in. I thought what I saw then was worth the risk, that I liked what I found, but it was only until I actually got to  _ see  _ Montparnasse for who he is that I fell in love with him.”

Enjolras listens. “I don’t understand.” She admits.

“I’m not saying that Grantaire is as scary as Montparnasse,” Jehan’s voice gives way to a light giggle briefly, “I think you’ll find out that you worry too much. You are interested in R, but R doesn’t exist anymore. You don’t know Grantaire - how could you fall in love with someone you don’t know? But you’ll find the traces of R in Grantaire that you liked, and then you’ll finally fall in love.”

Enjolras’ grip on her blankets tighten as she looks at Jehan, trying to make sense of their words. They give her a soft, reassuring smile, tucking the bankets further around her neck and face. “You worry too much, fearless leader.” Jehan repeats, then leans in to plant a soft kiss on Enjolras’ forehead. 

Jehan coddles them for the next few days, dragged Enjolras over to Bahorel’s to apologise properly, to which Bahorel just laughed and thumped Enjolras on the back, saying that she wasn’t the one Enjolras needed to apologise to. On Friday Jehan breaks into her flat - to Combeferre’s alarm and Courfeyrac’s glee - and stuffs Enjolras in her dress and mask, despite the blonde girl’s protest.

Montparnasse meets them at the club again, raising his eyebrows a little at the way Enjolras is dragging her feet, but he’s the only one who doesn’t know what’s going on and he doesn’t say anything, just inclines his head in greeting and escorts them in. Jehan whispers something in Montparnasse’s ears and he gives no indication that he’s heard it, just fits his own mask on.

The music is very much louder tonight, or perhaps Enjolras craves the distraction. Jehan and Montparnasse stay by her side, Jehan practically glued to their boyfriend’s side. When they manage to tear themselves away from him, they’re pressed close to Enjolras, pulling her into their orbit briefly before flitting back to Montparnasse.

It’s in one of these little breaks Jehan gives her that Enjolras throws a cursory glance to the bar. She’s there again. Enjolras crashes straight into Jehan, limbs flailing awkwardly until Montparnasse steadies both of them with a frown. Enjolras tries to apologise to both of them, but half her attention is drawn to the figure by the bar, the same paper mask on her face. This time she’s in a creased t-shirt and jeans, as if she had decided to come in a hurry.

A sudden sharp pain in her hand makes her wince out loud, and she looks back at Jehan, their displeasure clear in the set frown of their lips.  _ No _ , she can see them mouth, but the crowd is pushing them apart, desperate to dance, and she lets them.

The crowd swallows Jehan and Montparnasse up, spitting Enjolras on the other side, face to face with R. The mask is the same, and now that Enjolras knows the face that sits behind she expects it to lose its mysterious allure, but nothing about R is unappealing to her. Olive eyes appraise her warily.

“Fancy seeing you here.” Enjolras tries. 

“I don’t come here just for you, Aphrodite,” R remarks drily. Something akin to hurt flashes in Enjolras’ mind, and she falls silent.

Then suddenly Grantaire reaches over and grips Enjolras by the waist, pushing their bodies together and gives her a bruising kiss. It’s brutal and fiery and passionate, and Enjolras returns it with as much fervour as she can. 

They’re out the door of the club before she realises it, stumbling down the streets towards the motel, still attached to each other. R lets go of her momentarily to grab the room key from the receptionist, and then they’re pushing each other towards their room.

R falls on her like a hungry wolf, biting at her neck and collarbone, leaving bruises on her hips and waist and thighs. Her fingers fuck into Enjolras quickly, thumb rubbing an insistent rhythm into her clit, and all Enjolras can do is cry out loud and fall apart. R rubs her crotch against Enjolras’ thigh until she releases, and collapses against Enjolras.

The length of their bodies press against each other, achingly hot even though both of them are still dressed. R’s hand rests on Enjolras’ arm, motionless. Enjolras rolls over to her side, gingerly leaning forward to rest her masked forehead against R’s own. Their eyes meet, far too intimate, far too close, and R exhales shakily. 

“How could I stay away from you, Aphrodite?” R murmurs, voice dark and sensual. Enjolras has to kiss her then, ravenous, sucking at her full bottom lip. R responds just as eagerly, her hand coming to rest on Enjolras’ waist as she grips the blonde closer.

They pull apart, hot breaths heaving against one another’s faces. “I think we can do without the pretense.” Enjolras whispers against R’s mouth, flinging her own mask off. The other woman’s breath hitches, but she lets Enjolras lift the mask away from her face. Her features are even more striking up close, firm and distinct,  _ all Grantaire. _

“Say my name.” Enjolras says, oddly bold, raising up to cover Grantaire’s body with her own. She cups Grantaire's breasts through her shirt, traces the edge of her bra underneath. She puts her lips against Grantaire’s collarbone, sucking at the patch of skin as Grantaire’s fingers curl into her hair.

“ _ Enjolras _ .” Grantaire breathes out, then Enjolras is undoing Grantaire’s jeans hurriedly, pressing a knuckle against her soaked panties. She watches Grantaire’s expressions change as she pushes the fabric aside and fucks one finger in, slow but no less purposeful. She can see the way Grantaire’s cheeks become dusted with pink, the little creases in her forehead as her mouth falls apart, she can see clearly the way Grantaire’s eyes flutter close as she pulls Grantaire’s shirt up and peppers kisses on her toned stomach. When Enjolras leans back to take her dress off, Grantaire’s eyes snap open, and Enjolras can see the way her cheekbones look in the dim light of the room, a vulnerable expression written in every inch of her face.

“Take your jeans off.” Enjolras says, her voice coming out raspy and hoarse, rolling off Grantaire and pulling her underwear off without preamble. Grantaire scrambles to squirm out of the denim and throw them off the bed, and the rest of her clothes go with them.

They’re sitting up on the bed next to each other now, seeing each other fully for the first time. Enjolras’ gaze trails up her strong thighs and muscular abdomen, a mild yet vicious sense of pride at seeing the beginning of blood bruises forming. Her bare, full breasts and dusty nipples, sharp, defined collarbones and a firm jaw, a nose that seem like it’s been broken one too many times. Full, kissable lips that attracts Enjolras like a flame seduces a moth, olive eyes that stare back at her with equal intensity.

“You’re so beautiful.” Enjolras says, “I always thought you were.”

Grantaire ducks, then, a mocking grin rising on her face instinctively, and instantly the moment is gone. “Have you looked at a mirror recently?” She returns, “Or looked at any of your friends?”

Enjolras frowns, wanting R’s gaze back on her. “You  _ are _ beautiful.” She insists. “I don’t want to have sex with them, I want to have sex with you.” To prove her point she leans forward and pushes at Grantaire’s shoulders insistently until the other woman falls back onto the mattress, her attention back on Enjolras’ face.

“If that’s what it is.” Grantaire answers, and Enjolras doesn’t really understand what she means, but then Grantaire is surging up to kiss her, to lick into her mouth until she can only taste Grantaire, can feel her skin brushing against her own. Thumbs gently caress the curve of her breasts and she pushes them against Grantaire’s, their nipples brushing.

“You’re so beautiful.” She repeats between kisses, “I want you so much.” Grantaire doesn’t say anything back, just keeps kissing her, stealing her breath away.

Grantaire bends one of her knees and slides one of Enjolras’ legs underneath, pulling her on top of the other woman until their clits rub against each other. Enjolras gasps loudly at the heat that licks up her spine, collapsing on top of the other woman, her ponytail falling and hitting Grantaire on the cheek. Her blonde locks tangle with Grantaire’s black curls as Grantaire wraps hands around Enjolras’ hips to move them back and forth, their most intimate parts pressed close together. The sensations are making Enjolras dizzy, every single brush of her folds against Grantaire’s eliciting a gasp or moan, her fingers digging into Grantaire’s shoulders. Grantaire lifts her leg higher, presses them even closer, her hands sliding to grip Enjolras’ ass.

Enjolras’ name falls from Grantaire’s lips like a prayer, a mantra casted to the highest of heavens, uttered only by the most devout of worshippers. It washes over Enjolras, consuming her from within, and even as her orgasm spills out over Grantaire she keeps bucking her hips, wanting more,  _ needing  _ more.

“Kiss me,” She whimpers imperiously, and as she leans forward Grantaire’s mouth is open and waiting for her eagerly. It’s messy and teeth clang together as Grantire chases her own orgasm, but it’s R, it’s Grantaire kissing her, it’s perfect. Enjolras kisses her and kisses her and kisses her until they run out of air, until Grantaire twitches with overstimulation.

Grantaire untangles their legs and rolls Enjolras off her delicately, but Enjolras rests her head on the crook of Grantaire’s shoulder, touching her lips briefly to the swell of Grantaire’s breast. “Come to the next meeting.” She says after she manages to catch her breath. Grantaire stiffens next to her, but Enjolras’ weight is pinning her to the bed. “I want you there.” She murmurs confidently. “I want to get to know you.”

Then she stays quiet, lets R makes the decision in her own mind. If R is to ease away from her, Enjolras will let her go. Instead Grantaire is breathing heavily, exaggerated inhales and exhales that are distracted. “Okay.” She finally breathes out, and Enjolras lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding in. “I’ll go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anYway this isn't beta-ed so I apologize in advance for all the grammatical mistakes and typos :(
> 
> BUT i got to see les mis again last week for my birthday, the uk tour 2018 and it was absolutely /amazing/. Last time I got to see Leo Miles' Enjolras and this time it's Will Richardson's Enjolras and they both played the role /so well/ and just the stage and light design around the barricade boys' last scene is done so well i was heaving in the theatre trying not to cry out loud but OH WELL
> 
> ALso this is probably the last fully explicit sex scene in this fic unless yall convince me to write one in chapter 5 lmao ALSO if it gets confusing they basically scissor each other i didn't really know how to describe it halp
> 
> Hmu at twitter @hornet394 :)


	3. leave it unsaid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras is irresistible to Grantaire. Grantaire is irresistible to Enjolras.

Grantaire comes to the next meeting. The next meeting, and the next, and the next, and she becomes one of the regulars. She sits at the back with Bahorel, and her arguments with Enjolras once per month becomes twice per week. Each word that falls from Grantaire’s mouth is designed to challenge her, to infuriate her. Enjolras knows that Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Jehan, the only three to know Enjolras’ history with Grantaire, watch the two of them closely: Combeferre with blank concern, Courfeyrac with unbridled glee, and Jehan with a serene peace.

They still meet once a month, dance all their inhibitions away, see each other at the most bare as their masks lie on the floor. They have more sex and argue less, saving their best discussions for the Musain. Meanwhile, Grantaire easily slides in the rhythm of this too codependent group. She goes bar-hopping with Eponine and wins Joly and Bossuet over with an equally masochistic liking of trashy movies. She and Feuilly share some of their favourite artists, and her knowledge of trivia is unparalleled, making her a permanent addition to Courfeyrac’s pub quiz team. During meetings, Grantaire draws doodles for Jehan’s poems until she scoffs and destroys whatever point Enjolras is making at that moment, and after that she sits with Cosette and they trade baking tips.

Enjolras knows all this, because she’s asked everyone what they think of Grantaire, and - save Bahorel, who only raised both eyebrows in disbelief - were happy to tell Enjolras of what Grantaire had did with them.

Enjolras just smiles at them brightly and says that she’s happy Grantaire is getting along with them, but as soon as she turns around she’s chewing on her bottom lip awkwardly. She  _ doesn’t _ actually want to hear about how much fun they’ve had with Grantaire, she  _ wants _ Grantaire to tell her all those things herself. 

But it seems all that they do is argue, and meet once a month at a motel to fuck. It’s almost like she’s taking steps backward, despite the seemingly biggest obstacle between them gone. Now that their arguments are no longer private they fight like they have something to prove, and without the option to just shut each other up with their mouths, the tension escalates so much that sometimes it’s hard for Enjolras to even look her in the eyes.

Grantaire never tells her about the cute coffee shops she brings Jehan to, or the niche film screenings she hooks Combeferre up with. She has a personal story to share with every one of the Amis, except for Enjolras.

That’s okay. If Grantaire doesn’t want more from her, Enjolras isn’t going to force anything from her. If all Grantaire wants is sex from her - then Enjolras is going to try her best to give the most mindblowing sex Grantaire has ever had, until Grantaire wants more from her.

But Enjolras aches and yearns, and is being really obvious about it, according to Courfeyrac and Jehan. (To set the record straight, she isn’t  _ pining _ . She just wants Grantaire to be her friend, that is all.)

R is alluring and intelligent and charming and beautiful and sex on legs. Grantaire is all of the above, and funny and friendly and creative and cocky and Enjolras can’t tear her eyes off her.

“So...” Courfeyrac drawls one day when her, Enjolras, and Combeferre are gathered round for breakfast, “When did R start calling you Aphrodite, and when did you start allowing it?”

“I can’t stop her.” Enjolras flushes, spearing her sausage with her fork with a vengeance.

“No playing with food.” Combeferre says drily, not offering anymore on the topic.

Courfeyrac, however, is cutting up her toast meticulously, her eyes trained on Enjolras curiously. “Are you still fucking?”

“Courfeyrac!” Enjolras hisses back, “That’s none of your fucking business!” Her sausage rolls off the plate. 

The brief silence that meets her tells her that her outburst had been much too loud, and Courfeyrac is trying hard not to look wounded. Combeferre remains silent, reaching her fork out to stop the sausage from dropping onto the floor.

“You can tell us anything, Enj,” Courfeyrac finally says, in a far more softer tone, setting her cutlery down, “It doesn’t matter what for. We’re your best friends.” 

Combeferre has never been a fan of interventionist policies, but she doesn’t offer any disagreements to Courfeyrac’s words. Enjolras deflates, sinks into the seat and retrieves her sausage from Combeferre.

“This is still about Grantaire.” Courfeyrac points out matter of fact, staring at Enjolras intently. “You’re miserable because of her.”

“I’m not.” Enjolras snaps, but Combeferre and Courfeyrac just stares at her with an all-too-knowing gaze. “I’m just- I’m just stressed.”

“About what?” Combeferre asks nonchalantly, finishing the rest of her food and standing up to take the plate to the sink. “Everything for the rally has been planned. We’re done with exams and dissertations. All your job interviews are either done or too far into the future to consider. Unless you’ve signed yourself up for anything without telling me, which I know you’re not suicidal enough to consider, I fail to see anything else other than Grantaire that you’ve devoted your attention to.”

“I have not-” Enjolras bites back her words at Combeferre’s pointed glance. Courfeyrac is not that kind. “Have not what?” The other girl leans over and steals the last of Enjolras’ toast, “You haven’t been staring at her during meetings when she doesn’t notice? You haven’t been hovering around Bahorel to hear news about her boxing matches? You haven’t been  _ fucking _ her?”

If Enjolras is ready to counter Courfeyrac’s questions, what Combeferre says makes her flinch and stay silent. “Do you know what you’re doing with this relationship you have? Where do you want to go from there?”

Courfeyrac throws Enjolras a sympathetic look. “It doesn’t have to be that serious, does it? It could just be a little bit of fun.”

“Do you think this is still ‘just a little bit of fun’ to either of them?” Combeferre returns blankly.

“What do you mean?” Enjolras tries to snap out, but it comes out much shakier and she instantly wilts.

“You of all people don’t do things by halves.” Combeferre answers. “You haven’t figured out what you have with Grantaire, and before you do, it’s not going to go well.”

“Be optimistic.” Courfeyrac interjects half-heartedly, but too shuts her mouth, poking at her eggs guiltily for destroying the mood. Both women finish the last of their food in silence as Combeferre scrolls through her social media apps.

Courfeyrac vanishes for class, leaving Enjolras to wash the dishes as Combeferre keeps her company. “What did you mean by it won’t go well?” She asks quietly as she scrubs the dishes. Combeferre looks up from her phone. “Do you think it will?” Combeferre asks instead.

Enjolras turns on the tap to rinse the plates, and the sound of rushing water fills the silence as she mulls over Combeferre’s words. “Enjolras, you’ve not thought this through,” Combeferre finally says, not unkindly, “And you and I both know how often you come to regret things you don’t think through. The choices you make are easily subject to challenge and fall apart with a single touch. ”

Enjolras tenses up at this, but keeps her face blank as she puts the plates on the rack. She hears a small huff from Combeferre, and she’s left alone to stew in her thoughts as her roommate heads back into her room. 

//

Grantaire shows up for the meeting right before the Sunday rally, but Enjolras can’t afford to be distracted by her this time. Les Amis isn’t leading this rally, but it’s Louison’s first big event and she’s been calling Enjolras with increasing frequency as the date approaches, which makes Enjolras stressed out on her behalf.

She’s in a foul mood the whole morning and she herself can recognize it when she starts snapping at Jehan of all people. Angry at the world and most of all herself, she retreats to one corner of the Musain, glaring at her cup of coffee as her phone vibrates non-stop on the table. Courfeyrac keeps her busy with sorting out a stack of mis-ordered documents that are full of typos.

She knows it’ll end badly when she sees Grantaire put a bottle down in the periphery of her vision, the woman herself sidling into the chair across of her. “Hey Aphrodite,” Grantaire starts, “What’s got you ruffled today?”

“Don’t call me that.” Enjolras snaps, the force of her scowl shocking even herself. Grantaire’s expression doesn’t flinch, but she takes a swig of the apple juice. On the table, Enjolras' phone lights up and vibrates repeatedly.' p

“Ooh, someone’s clingy,” Grantaire laughs, a rough, jarring sound. Enjolras scowls at her phone, but answers, “She’s nervous, that’s all.”

“You’re glaring at your phone,” Grantaire shakes her head, “If you frown any longer those wrinkles on your forehead are going to be permanent, you know.”

It’s usual R banter, Grantaire banter, but Enjolras can’t bear to hear it today. “Just leave me be, Grantaire. I’m just super stressed, okay?” She misfiles a piece of paper by mistake and huffs in annoyance.

Grantaire falls quiet, but remains seated opposite Enjolras, scrutinising her struggling harder and getting more and more frustrated. When Grantaire finally speaks, her voice is quiet, yet loud with clarity in Enjolras’ ears. “You can’t solve every single problem in the world, Aphrodite.”

Enjolras slams her hands down on the table unconsciously. “Are you telling me to  _ stop caring _ ?” She snarls.

The pile of papers in her hands falls apart. Everyone is stricken quiet, but there’s a blind rage in front of Enjolras’ eyes which prevents her from seeing it. There’s an indecipherable expression on Grantaire’s face. Tension is written clearly in her posture, fists clenched so tight around her juice bottle that her knuckles turn white. “When have I ever been able to tell you what to do?”

Enjolras’ vision turns hazy and she rubs at her eyes fiercely, trying to dispel the sudden wave of nausea. “Then just- I don’t know- just shut up and leave me be.” She can feel the beginnings of a headache coming, and she slumps further in her chair, but Grantaire doesn’t move, just stares at her pointedly. Enjolras’ phone vibrates again.

“Come on, R,” She hears Bahorel say, “Enjolras needs her space.”

“She’s getting herself worked up on something so trivial!” Grantaire spits out, and Enjolras can no longer pretend that she was focusing on gathering back the pile of papers Courfeyrac had given her. “Trivial?” She glares at Grantaire, meets Grantaire’s gaze, sees the angry set to the other woman’s lips. “That’s what this is to you?” She hisses out, “Why are you even here, then, if this means so little to you? If you don’t believe in anything we have to say, then  _ why are you here? _ ”

“Enj...” She can hear Courfeyrac say warningly, but the words are out before her brain processes them. “No one’s forcing you to stay here!”

“Enjolras!” Courfeyrac shouts, and she’s marching across the room to drag Enjolras out of the Musain’s backdoor by the elbow. “Time out for you.” She hisses, leaving Enjolras outside on the pavement. 

Out here she doesn’t have her phone as a distraction, so Enjolras just sits down on the steps leading to the Musain obediently. Courfeyrac rarely raises her voice like this, and Enjolras is sorry for lumping her own problems on top of Courfeyrac’s plate, but she’s not sorry for what she’s said. The execution could have been better, yes, but there’s always a horrible feeling on the bottom of her stomach when Grantaire looks at her in the eye and calls her naive, when Grantaire tears Enjolras’ very  _ purpose _ to shreds. 

Often times she can overcome this with arguments of her own, she can be consoled by the gentleness in Grantaire’s eyes when Enjolras makes a good point, she can be inspired by the rest of the group picking at the strands of their argument and transforming it into a discussion of their own, and it doesn’t matter if she gets her argument at the end.

But this time is like the straw that breaks the camel’s back, and at the end of the day, Enjolras is only human. She doesn’t let the others see her doubt herself, doesn’t let them see her uncertain and vulnerable. She knows that they wouldn’t think of her differently, but they don’t deserve that burden. R had been the one she trusted herself with, but when R became Grantaire, the lines become blurred, and when Grantaire had tried to ask her a question R would ask her - it was just too much.

The fresh air helps calm the tension inside of Enjolras. She wants a cup of coffee, but she figures no one would really want to see her now. The door opens behind her.

“Here,” Feuilly plops down next to her, handing her her mug. “And Joly made me bring an umbrella.”

Enjolras thanks her gratefully and takes a sip of the coffee. It’s hot and just-made, the way Enjolras particularly likes when ordering from Eponine.

They sit in silence for a while, Feuilly lost in thought, Enjolras focusing on the cup of delicacy in her hands.

“Grantaire just wanted you to take a break.” Feuilly finally says, “Don’t be mad at her.”

Enjolras sighs but doesn’t say anything. Is she mad at Grantaire? Or is she mad at herself?

“I wish Louison would just shut up.” She says instead, “She’s more than prepared for this.”

Feuilly ruffles the top of her hair before heading back inside. “I’ll let them know.”

The rest of the Amis come out one by one to talk with her, even Joly, although he refuses to sit down. Bossuet does trip and sends Enjolras’ mug flying, but at least it’s a collapsible plastic one and empty, or else Enjolras would be tempted to commit homicide in the middle of the day. Eponine gives her a refill afterwards, and she’s also the one to drive Enjolras and Jehan to the rally.

The group is split across different points of the rally, acting as safety wardens. Louison greets Enjolras excitedly and doesn’t make a comment about her unanswered calls and messages, just throws them their volunteer jackets and heads them off to where they should be.

The rally starts slow, but Enjolras is soon busy with distributing water and stopping stragglers from going down roads that weren’t blocked for them, while keeping an eye on the spectators. Montparnasse materializes at some point to help Jehan, but disappears whenever Enjolras is tempted to ask him to do something else.

It’s about two hours in when Enjolras gets a message from Louison that scuffles have broken out near her. It’s a bit of a blur then - Some man knocks a protestor’s placard out of their hands and steps on it, all the while getting red-faced shouting at everyone who would listen.

The following things then happen in no particular order: 1) Enjolras punches someone 2) Montparnasse punches someone 3) Eponine kicks someone in the nuts 4) Jehan gets their hair pulled 5) Jehan kicks someone in the nuts 6) Someone starts screaming 7) Enjolras gets knocked onto the ground 8) Police arrive on scene.

The others try to get to Enjolras as quick as possible, but a peaceful crowd met with violence turns into a panicked mob quickly, and the next time Enjolras comes to is in a hospital.

She’s not unaccustomed to the sight of a hospital room, but this is one of the rare times she’s not handcuffed to the side of the bed at the same time.

Most of the group are around her, and judging from the clipboard in Courfeyrac’s hands, they’ve moved the post-rally debriefing to her room instead of in the Musain as planned.

There’s a faint touch on her left hand and she turns slightly to see Combeferre sitting next to the bed, her eyes a little bit red-rimmed. “Good?” She asks.”

“Yeah.” Enjolras’ throat aches a bit when she says it, but it’s just a faint annoyance. She definitely has a split lip again, and her eyes and nose feels vaguely out of place, but Combeferre would tell her if something was wrong. “No need to call a doctor.”

Combeferre nods rapidly. “Your right wrist is broken,” She tells Enjolras, “And some of your ribs are cracked. You’ll be in here a while.”

Enjolras winces. “Sorry for making you worry, Ferre.” She says, turning her hand to hold Combeferre’s lightly. Combeferre moves to say something, but then the rest of the group descends on Enjolras like vultures, clearly running out of patience. Enjolras squeezes her hand one more time and refuses to let go, stopping Combeferre from moving away.

Bahorel jabbers on at top speed about how Enjolras couldn’t be trusted to go anywhere on her own, Jehan is shoving their phone into her face saying that even Montparnasse was worried and had told Jehan to send him a photo of her, but the text message on their phone simply says “lol she has a messed up face”. Somehow Marius has also acquired a black eye, and there’s Eponine telling Enjolras that she should have gone for the nuts, not the face, she’s too short to reach the face anyway. Courfeyrac mimes wiping away tears and says something about how Enjolras is a rebellious child out to break mama Courf’s heart, making the whole room groan out loud.

Enjolras starts getting tired 10 or so minutes later, and Combeferre begins to shoo the rest of the group out. “You just want to keep Enjolras all for yourself.” Courfeyrac complains as she corrals a reluctant Bahorel and Jehan out. Combeferre sticks her tongue out in a rare show of childishness in response.

“All quiet again.” Enjolras smiles, “What did you want to say just now?”

Combeferre thinks for a moment. “I was thinking that I’m happy I get to worry about you?” She says, playing with their entwined fingers, “Not in a bad way. Simply an observation that I would be a much different person without you.”

Enjolras feels like this is a conversation they should be having when she’s not drugged up on pain meds and actively fighting against her drooping eyelids. “Love you.” She says, squeezing her best friend’s hand again.

Combeferre is so bright and warm that Enjolras relaxes even further into a boneless, morphine-laced pile, and she only manages to stay awake long enough to hear Combeferre say “love you too”.

The next time she wakes the blinds of the room are drawn shut, and it’s not Combeferre’s hand in her own, but a hand significantly larger and more calloused. The painkillers are almost out of her system, leaving an annoying throbbing pain in her whole body.

She shakes Grantaire awake, and the other woman rouses blearily from where she’s fallen asleep on the chair. The way her eyes open slowly is painfully adorable to Enjolras, and she lets her fond smile emerge fully on her face.

Grantaire blinks at her slowly, looking oddly vulnerable, given her normal nonchalant and flippant way of holding herself. “I told Combeferre to go home and shower,” She says, her voice barely louder than a whisper, as if afraid that any louder noise would bring harm to Enjolras.

Enjolras brushes her thumb lightly over Grantaire’s knuckles. They’re bruised. “You were there as well, weren’t you?” She asks.

Grantaire sits up straighter, but she’s still very close. Enjolras’ gaze traces her beautiful eyes, her nose, all too crooked but endearing to Enjolras. Her cheekbones, the sharp, firm line of her jaw, her full lips, dry and cracked. Grantaire shifts slightly and leans forward.

Enjolras’ mouth parts involuntarily. 

Grantaire presses her into the soft mattress, devouring her mouth with an intensity she’s never had before. Enjolras’ split lip starts bleeding again, the blood mingling with the saliva between them.

“You, Enjolras,” Grantaire says between kisses, “Are an absolute fool.”

Enjolras’ ribs start to protest and they ease up, but Grantaire remains close by her side. Combeferre hasn’t returned yet, and she plays with Enjolras’ uninjured hand. Enjolras traces the artist’s callous in her finger lightly, rubbing over the rough patch of skin with the pad of her thumb. Grantaire says something that Enjolras doesn’t really hear, so she looks up at the other woman’s face in question.

Grantaire gives her a funny look. “If you didn’t hear it then leave it.”

“No, tell me,” Enjolras pesters, “You’ve made me curious now.”

“Forget it.” Grantaire mutters, but there’s a faint hint of a smile on her face. Enjolras doesn’t press it anymore, just for that smile.

“I want to be with you.” Enjolras says dreamily, “I want to be exclusive.”

Grantaire freezes.

“Or not,” Enjolras quickly backtracks, a wave of faint nausea rising in her. Her voices goes smaller as she cringes inwardly, wanting to melt into the bed and disappear. “I just thought-”

“YES.” Grantaire shouts, all too loud and fitting for their surroundings. 

It’s Enjolras’ turn to be completely befuddled. “Yes?” She repeats stupidly. 

Grantaire squeezes her hand a little too tightly, but Enjolras doesn’t say anything. Grantaire looks so  _ content _ like this, Enjolras could never bear to interrupt her. 

“How could I say no to an injured goddess?” Grantaire chuckles, in that soft, infuriating way that makes Enjolras’ heart skip a beat.

“You don’t have to say yes just because I’m lying in a hospital bed.” Enjolras answers, almost shyly. Grantaire’s laugh is quiet, but makes her entire body shake. “‘Let me stay by your side.’” she says, “That was what I said.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow i'm pumping these les mis fics out  
again, unbetaed, i'm desperate to find a beta, please let me know how to find you


	4. for the sake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're together. If it was only so simple.

Grantaire lives alone in a studio apartment. That makes her place the ideal location for the two of them to hang out, without two inquisitive flatmates poking over their shoulders every five seconds. Instead there are seemingly multitudes of canvases that lie around the area, all of Grantaire’s commissions or something aspiring towards being a commission. Books spill out of the bookshelf and are strewn around messily. Not even the cutlery are organized, they’re just silverware chucked into one drawer. The only thing that has the faint resemblance to order is the calendar tacked onto the back of the door, with a green star drawn on every day that Grantaire had stayed away from alcohol.

Dating Grantaire is not much different to fucking Grantaire, Enjolras realizes in puzzlement, only that they have sex most days rather than waiting for once a month. She feels like a newborn deer walking in mud. Faintly she becomes aware that she must be doing this wrong somehow, because Grantaire has done nothing to indicate she returns Enjolras’ romantic feelings. They never put a clear label on it, and they’re not _ girlfriends _, they don’t introduce each other that way. They just hang out and watch movies and have sex after meetings - they don’t talk about their personal interests, or favourite foods and animals, anything that Enjolras assumed people that were dating knew about each other. Grantaire seems disinterested in talking about personal things with her, and Enjolras never knows how to ask and fills the silence with inane rambles that devolve into arguments. But Enjolras is done talking, she just wants to listen to Grantaire, but it never seems Grantaire has much to say, and Enjolras stops looking forward to the day Grantaire will tell her everything.

But for now it works. Grantaire’s clever fingers are buried deep in Enjolras’ cunt, lazily exploring as she spoons Enjolras from behind. Her thumb flicks over Enjolras’ clit occasionally, but only teasingly. The two of them are lying side by side on Grantaire’s bed, lying in nothing but their underpants. Grantaire’s other hand props her head up on the pillow as Enjolras caresses her own breasts lightly. It’s slow and languid and awfully domestic.

“Kiss me.” Enjolras mews out imperiously, and Grantaire complies, pressing a soft kiss against her lips. Her orgasm washes over her gently, a faint shudder which prompts Grantaire to move her hand upwards and caress the curve of Enjolras’ stomach. 

“Can I fuck you?” She whispers against Enjolras’ lips. “Sure.” Enjolras replies in a daze, still in her post-orgasm haze. She’s vaguely aware that she has to go over the powerpoint for tonight’s meeting, but at the moment she can’t bring herself to care.

Grantaire’s body heat leaves her just for a few seconds, but it’s enough for Enjolras to register the difference. “Hurry up.” She whines, and Grantaire’s low chuckle makes her shiver a little.

“Are you cold?” Grantaire asks, rubbing Enjolras’ bare arms lightly. “Lie on your back and I’ll pull the blankets up.” Enjolras obeys, and she is instantly blanketed in Grantaire’s warmth and her duvet. She can feel something hard around thighs, and she reaches a hand down to rub it absently. 

“Is it the one with the vibrator in you?” She asks, dragging her panties off and flinging it somewhere on the floor.

“Of course,” Grantaire teases, gaze filled with amusement, “Since you want to lie here and do nothing.”

“Not true,” Enjolras complains half-heartedly, framing Grantaire’s face in her hands to bring the other woman down for a kiss.

She can hear the hitch in Grantaire’s breath when she turns the vibrator on, so Enjolras presses her hand against the dildo deviously, delighting in the moan ripped out from Grantaire. “Patience is a virtue, Aphrodite.” She gasps out, but obligingly lifts Enjolras’ legs around her own waist, the tip of the silicone pressing against Enjolras’ folds.

“Greek goddesses weren’t known for their patience, and least of all Aphrodite,” Enjolras remarks cheekily, “And if I were one, shouldn’t you be on your knees worshipping me?”

That doesn’t fluster Grantaire at all, just makes her laugh out loud as she thrusts her hips forward. “I’d go on my knees anytime for you,” She winks, “And here I am, your devoted acolyte, worshipping every inch of you.”

With that she leans down and fucks into Enjolras harder, kissing Enjolras’ exposed neck sloppily before blowing a raspberry at the base of Enjolras’ neck, drawing near hysterical giggles from the blonde.

Grantaire’s hips move languidly against Enjolras’, both of them in no hurry to orgasm, Grantaire occupied with marking every inch of Enjolras’ skin that she can lay her mouth on, Enjolras hopelessly turned on by that and retaliating by holding onto Grantaire’s hair.

Enjolras comes again when Grantaire sucks at the swell of her right breast, her thighs clenching against Grantaire’s waist. “You’ve came twice already, you big slut,” Grantaire sighs dramatically, wrenching Enjolras’ legs from around Grantaire’s waist to resting on Grantaire’s shoulders. Her fingers dig into the meat of Enjolras’ thighs, and her next thrust is unrelenting.

Grantaire doesn’t stop, just fucks Enjolras into oversensitivity and keeps her there, using her strength to pin down Enjolras’ hips and thighs even as she begins to thrash against the bed, her lower body aching loudly in protest.

Her initial cries of Grantaire’s name fade into stuttered whimpers as the dildo presses against her walls, occasionally hitting the sensitive spot inside of her and eliciting a long, delicious moan from the blonde. “I can do this all day, Aphrodite,” She hears Grantaire say in amusement, “The vibrator’s still at its lowest setting.”

Enjolras knows Grantaire isn’t as unaffected as she claims, judging from the little pants she’s making against Enjolras’ collarbone, and the way her fingers grip into the bedsheets next to Enjolras’ head.

“Turn it up.” Enjolras moans out, “Come on.”

“What if I say no?” Grantaire muses, “What can you do about it?”

“Fuck, I don’t know!” Enjolras whines, clawing at Grantaire's arms. Grantaire’s amusement is palpable, but one of her hand reaches for the remote, to Enjolras’ satisfaction.

Grantaire fucks her into another orgasm, then pulls out and ruts against her thigh until she releases. She pulls Enjolras close, and Enjolras shifts around for a bit to find the perfect spot to snuggle into Grantaire.

Just as she lays her head down with a contented sigh, her phone buzzes. She makes to reach for it, but Grantaire’s grip on her tightens. “Leave it, Enjolras.” She mumbles, but Enjolras stretches and manages to pinch it to her. “It could be important, R.” She answers.

It’s a text message from Bossuet. He should be volunteering at the homeless shelter right now, so she really shouldn’t be getting anything from him at this time.

“What’s wrong?” Grantaire asks, nesting her chin into the crook of Enjolras’ shoulder. It’s comforting and steady and Enjolras wants to melt into it, but it’s also highly distracting, so she sits up to focus on Bossuet’s text message.

“What’s wrong?” Grantaire repeats. “Bossuet found a guy doing drugs in the bathroom,” Enjolras angles her phone towards Grantaire, letting her read, “He’s asking what to do.”

Grantaire shrugs. “Turn him in, what else?” She says flippantly, “He knows the rules, and rules are there for a reason."

Enjolras frowns and turns to face Grantaire, trying to read her expression. “How could you say that?” She argues, “He’ll have to go back onto the streets. Doesn’t he deserve another chance?”

Grantaire meets her gaze steadily. “He’s putting the other people at risk by doing drugs within the shelter. Is that what you want?”

Enjolras makes a frustrated noise. “So we’re just going to sacrifice him?”

“You can’t save everyone.” Grantaire sits up as well, her bare body a whole new distraction that Enjolras has to tear her eyes away from. 

“That’s not what I’m trying to do.” She returns, perhaps a tad bit harshly, “There’s a chance that this is the only time he’ll do this-”

“You can’t just tell- fuck-ups to just- stop being fuck-ups. It doesn’t work on people like us.” Grantaire cuts her off, her hands white knuckled from where she’s gripping onto the bedsheets.

For a moment Enjolras just stares at her. There’s a million questions racing through her brain, arguments she wants to lay out, promises she wants to make.

“For fuck’s sake R,” She chokes out, her voice thick, “You’re the furthest thing from a fuck-up. Please.”

Grantaire rolls her eyes viciously. “Of course you’d say that.” 

“What do you mean?” Enjolras returns sharply.

Grantaire laughs, a harsh, grating sound that makes Enjolras dig her nails into her palms. “One day you’re going to wake up and see the world for what it is, Aphrodite, and I pray I won’t be around to see it.”

“Just stop it!” Enjolras forces herself to unclench her fists and pinches the bridge of her nose, dropping her phone, “What on earth will make you believe, Grantaire? You don’t believe in the cause, you don’t believe in humanity, you don’t believe in us-”

“I believe in you.” Grantaire cuts her off, a certain thickness to her voice, “Is that not enough for you?”

“Guess what, Grantaire, I make mistakes too!” Enjolras throws her hands into the air in frustration, spotting and regretting the flinch that wracks through Grantaire. But the words are already at the tip of her tongue and they spill out without bidding. “I don’t even know why I try with you if you expect the world to hand feed you.”

Grantaire’s lips curl viciously, her entire posture defensive. “So you’re just staying with me because you pity me? I’m not your fucking charity case!”

“Fuck you, you know that’s not true!” Enjolras yells back, the tears beginning to fall from her eyes. She wipes them away angrily, because Grantaire is still very beautiful like this, all power and anger, but Enjolras hates that it’s all directed against her.

“Then tell me why,” Grantaire grounds out, “Because I don’t understand you. You say shit like this and then turn around and expect me to be there, expect me to have sex with you- “

“Whether we have sex has nothing to do with this.” Enjolras snaps out.

“Yeah?” Grantaire snorts loudly, “Because that’s not how I see it. You say you want a relationship but all we do is have sex. Am I your dirty little secret? Does it make you feel good, having me at your beck and call? I’m pathetic, I know it-”

“You’re not listening to me!” Enjolras cuts her off, a horrible feeling rising in her stomach. She had never knew that Grantaire had felt like that, and the truth is far uglier than she thought she could handle. “You never tell me anything, you never let me in-”

“You were never interested!” Grantaire throws back, and oh, that’s the problem, isn’t it? Enjolras never knows how to listen to the things Grantaire wants to say to her, always gets angry at her, always gets frustrated like she is now. “I _ know _ you know about my hobbies, my competitions, my exhibits, whatever, but you’re always too busy talking about fucking politicians or having sex with me! You were never interested in what else I had to offer, so what else am I supposed to do?”

“You’re putting words in my mouth!” Enjolras snaps. “I am fucking interested in you! You never say anything, you always- You ridicule me, you undermine everything I try to do, and then you go around and tell everyone everything, _ except for me _, what else am I supposed to do? Push you?

“Fuck, I don’t even know why I thought this would work.” She mutters, rubbing her eyes again. Grantaire laughs bitterly, a sound that gnaws at Enjolras’ heart. “Yeah?” She laughs, “The grand Aphrodite finally admits her mistake?”

Enjolras’ temper explodes then at that asinine nickname. “Fuck you, Grantaire, fuck you! You never treat me seriously, you never treat me like an actual person-”

“I don’t know, Enjolras,” Grantaire shouts over her, “You’re the one who wanted me to treat you differently! I’m sorry if I’m inconveniencing you!”

“Fuck this.” Enjolras blurts out in a scream, heavy tears flooding her gaze, “We’re over!” 

She sinks to the ground, burying her face in her palms as she begins to sob aloud. This is grief that she’s never experienced before, an ache in her heart, a yearning that pulls at her. “Yeah?” She hears Grantaire say somewhere above her, “Is that what you want?”

The door slams behind her as Grantaire dresses and leaves.

The world around her turns dark but Grantaire doesn’t come back.

Enjolras tearfully figures that she’s overstayed her welcome, so she drags herself out of the flat and heads to Jehan’s. She doesn’t think she could put up with Courfeyrac’s incessant questions or Combeferre’s quiet judgement right now.

They’re alone, thankfully, swamped in a Christmas sweater when they open the door. Instantly Enjolras bursts into tears again. Jehan visibly panics for a second, but is quick to draw her into their cozy flat. Their cat startles from its position on the couch and jumps away to hide somewhere.

Cuddled amongst Jehan’s throw pillows and a cup of hot chamomile tea in her hands, she manages to collect herself enough to attempt an explanation to Jehan. Through her stumbling words Jehan listens intently, their eyes trained on her attentively until she dissolves into tears again, clinging to Jehan’s sleeves. 

“I see her, and I love her,” Enjolras cries into Jehan’s shoulder, “I don’t want it anymore.”

“You don’t mean that.” Jehan says softly, but urgently, as if to dissuade Enjolras from changing her mind. But Enjolras’ mind is long set, a conclusion foregone, and it _ hurts so much _.

“I love her so much.” It spills out from her, honest and raw and all too heartaching, “I never told her that. Maybe I should have told her.”

Jehan drags her closer, until she’s lying across their chest, their chin on the top of her blonde curls. “Why did you say what you said to her, if you love her?”

Enjolras sniffles. It takes a long while before she answers Jehan, but they wait for her patiently. “It was- it started about something else, but then it just- everything’s just out of control, Jehan. It didn’t even make sense.”

“Did you mean to keep it secret?” Jehan probes gently as they stroke her hair.

“I- I didn’t think too much about it,” Enjolras confesses, “I thought- I thought everyone would know, just naturally. That’s what usually happens.” Jehan sighs fondly. “By ‘usually’ you mean that one time Marius wouldn’t shut up about Cosette, or Courferyac’s string of partners. The thing is, they’re not you, Enjolras.”

Enjolras cranes her neck to meet their gaze. “...It’s my fault, isn’t it?”

Jehan’s hand stills and they look away from her gaze. “Well, everyone sucks here, really. We wanted to give you two space, but the two of you were waiting for everyone else to say something. You wanted it to be more, but you never told her what this all meant to you. She just assumed that you had everything under control and jumped to conclusions about who you were or what you wanted from your relationship.” Enjolras’ face crumbles again and she shoves her face into Jehan’s sweater. They cradle the back of her head, their touch steady and anchoring. The tea goes cold as her tears run dry.

She makes a soft, wounded noise when Jehan quietly suggests to make her another cup of tea, clinging to them, lost like a leaf adrift in the sea. Jehan doesn’t move, just croons poems at her until she stops shuddering and heaving.

When Jehan stops to take a sip of their cold tea, Enjolras turns so she is lying sideways on Jehan. “I didn’t want to break up with her.”She admits quietly. “I didn’t want to.”

Jehan hums lightly. “You’re always angrier when you argue with Grantaire, you know that?” They say, “You don’t get that worked up even if you’re shouting down an elected MP.”

Enjolras purses her lips, stares up at Jehan, who’s looking back at her, waiting for her to admit a truth that they both have known for a long time. “Grantaire’s opinion matters to me.” She says in a whisper, but no less sincere.

Jehan smiles at them, then. Big and genuine.

Enjolras’ phone starts ringing. They both frown in unison and Enjolras reaches for it. “It’s Bahorel.” She tells Jehan, and sits up to accept the call.

Bahorel doesn’t waste time with greetings, she never does. Instead her tone is one of poorly feigned anger as she spits out, “Grantaire’s not at her boxing class, and she never misses one without telling anyone. What did you do?”

Jehan snatches the phone up and cuts the call, but Enjolras is starting to sink into the pillows of the couch, a white noise filling her skull and dragging her under. Jehan’s hands on her cheeks draws her back, and her eyes snap to theirs, her fingers lashing out to claw into Jehan’s arms. _ Shit shit shit shit shit _“It’s all my fault.” She gasps out, “It’s all my fucking fault.”

“Shhhh.” Jehan says soothingly, “Even if it is, so what?”

Enjolras clings to them tighter, knowing that she doesn’t deserve Jehan’s patience, doesn’t deserve _ Grantaire _ after all she’s done. “I’m not- I’m not good for Grantaire, don’t you see? I fucked everything up! She was right.” Every single time Grantaire questioned her, every single time Grantaire told her that Enjolras had been wrong - 

Jehan is frowning, and Enjolras pushes herself away from them. “Enjolras, when have you ever agreed with Grantaire?” They ask, lost in their own thoughts for a moment. Enjolras lets out a shaky breath. “A lot of times.” She admits, “I just don’t say anything about it.”

She’s raw and vulnerable, the last of her defenses stripped down in front of Jehan. If only- if only. 

“Why don’t you?” Jehan prompts. “Why don’t you tell her that she was right?” Enjolras’ fingers dig into the fabric of the couch. 

“Enjolras?” Jehan prompts lightly.

“I don’t want R to think I’m stupid.” She admits miserably. She turns away from Jehan, not wanting to see the pity in their eyes. “But I am, aren’t I? I’m so stupid.”

Jehan wipes away the tears gathering in the corner of Enjolras’ eyes, making her meet their gaze. “Enjolras.” They say gravely, “You may not be the smartest, but we all look up to you, even R. Combeferre is the smartest person we know and she would be the first one to follow you to the ends of the earth if you so wished. Do you understand that?”

Enjolras couldn’t possibly say no. The way Jehan stares at them - it leaves no space for her to argue otherwise. Enjolras knows, in her conscience, that what Jehan says is true. She would lay down her life for every one of her friends, and she knows they would do the same for her. But times like these she’s left doubting. Not their judgement, but herself. Just like how she’s not good enough for Grantaire, that she’s _ hurt _ Grantaire, that she’s _ made _ Grantaire think that she doesn’t care about her - she wrenches her gaze away from Jehan’s eyes.

Jehan gives a small sigh. “Putting that aside,” they say, “Do you want to see R?”

That, Enjolras could answer. “Yes.” She whispers, biting on her lower lip.

“Then we need to find her.” Jehan murmurs, patting her on the head, “Then you can decide if you’ll let her walk away from you again.”

//

Combeferre’s quiet for an eerily long time when Jehan calls her. Enjolras chews on her lower lip anxiously, fearing her best friend’s reaction above all others.

Finally, Combeferre’s voice comes over the speaker of the phone. “I’ll explain to the others, the two of you head there first. I’ll send someone to check her other haunts. We’ll head over soon.

“Oh, and tell Enjolras to stop worrying. I’m not mad. Everyone keeps secrets, and I’m glad you have Jehan. You don’t owe me anything. I just want to see you safe and happy, it doesn’t matter with who, okay? We’ll talk after this is over.”

“I love you.” Enjolras croaks out, and she can hear Combeferre’s fond smile over the phone. “Love you too.” She replies, then ends the call.

Jehan lends one of their longer dresses to Enjolras. Neither of them bother with more make-up, they just flag a cab to Patron-Minette. Montparnasse meets them at the door, holding out two plain masks wordlessly. With a jolt Enjolras realizes that it’s the Masked Night again.

If her hands shake a bit when she takes the mask from Montparnasse’s hand, no one comments on it.

The music in the club is a jarring distraction, each beat echoing roughly in Enjolras’ heart. She desperately scours the dance floor, but it’s impossible to make out faces in the mass of limbs and masks. There seems to be even more people in the club today, or perhaps it’s Enjolras’ desperation playing exaggerated tricks on her mind.

Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Bahorel, and Eponine turn up 15 minutes later, and they split up to cover more ground. Enjolras waits by the bar, peering into the crowd erratically. People are beginning to give her weird looks.

Suddenly someone slides into the barstool next to her. “You won’t find her by standing out here,” Montparnasse says, looking at everything but her. “Dancing was how you first found her, wasn’t it?”

She stares at him. There must be something helpless in her expression, because he just sighs and wraps his fingers around her wrist. She lets him drag her into the dance floor, and he sets her free there. 

Her motions are rigid and robotic but no one cares as she moves her body half-heartedly, out of sync with the thumping bass. In her periphery vision she sees Combeferre frowning at her, phone out. Courfeyrac, next to her, is gesturing wildly, pointing at Enjolras and mouthing something she can’t decipher.

Strong arms sling around her neck and she almost stumbles. She looks up wildly to see the woman she’s been looking for the whole night draped onto her, paper mask slightly askew. “Aphrodite!” Grantaire says in a singsong voice, “You came!”

Lips cover hers sloppily in Enjolras’ shock, but Enjolras quickly recovers and pushes her away, but doesn’t let go of her. Jehan, Bahorel, and Eponine are coming up behind Grantaire, while Courfeyrac and Combeferre cages Grantaire in by the sides.

“You’ve been drinking.” Enjolras hisses in horror, the foul taste filling her mouth, “You aren’t supposed to be drinking.”

“I’d apologize, but it’s my job to fuck up, isn’t it?” Grantaire’s words are slurred, and if Enjolras lifts Grantaire’s mask, she’s sure she’ll find that Grantaire’s cheeks are red from intoxication. 

There’s anger bubbling inside Enjolras, and she’s aware she’s gripping Grantaire’s shoulders too hard, but she’s furious. Furious for herself, for letting Grantaire walk away. For Grantaire, for breaking her promise, when she had been doing so good. Furious at herself for being the reason and furious at Grantaire for making Enjolras her reason. Furious, and helpless.

There are hands tugging at Enjolras, and it gets a bit claustrophobic, but then Jehan’s hands are tugging both of them outside of the club. Enjolras stumbles a bit onto the street but she never lets go of Grantaire.

Still the noise follows, and then Combeferre is hissing “Quiet!”

Grantaire slumps onto the wall and slides down onto the ground, pulling Enjolras down with her.

“Aphrodite,” She slurs out loudly as Enjolras pulls the mask off her face, “I’m too fucked today to fuck you.”

“I don’t want to have sex with you.” Enjolras says bluntly, “You’re going home now.”

“To yours?” Grantaire leers, “I thought that wasn’t allowed.”

“Stop this.” It’s Jehan who interjects between the two of them, forcing Enjolras to step away from Grantaire. They are calm when Enjolras is not, when everyone else is watching them with tears of frustration or bated breaths. Jehan crouches in front of Grantaire, grabs her face and forces her to look at them. 

Their words are solemn, a serious set to their face. “Treat yourself better, Grantaire. You deserve more than this.”

Grantaire looks at them, olive eyes red-rimmed and searching. Then she buries her face in her hands and starts to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (i'm so fkn soft for combeferre oh my god)  
(Anyway I got distracted setting up a futuristic!au drabble so here you go)
> 
> Again, unbetaed! Hmu on twitter/tumblr, both @hornet394. One more chapter and an epilogue to follow :) Leave kudos and comments :D Or rec me to les mis tumblrs I can follow!  
See you in 2020!


	5. clearly there's something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath, they salvage for what is left to them.

Somehow Enjolras manages to convince the rest of the group that it’s best she takes care of R until she sobers. Bahorel doesn’t look like she agrees, but Courfeyrac and Jehan takes her aside and she stays silent.

They sit at the backseat of the taxi, both curled up against opposite car doors, the distance between them thick and heavy. The driver probably thinks that they’re both drunk. Grantaire’s cheeks are still flushed red, but the set of her lips are downturned and rigid. To Enjolras, the tear tracks on her face are all too prominent, like scars. Enjolras turns her gaze to the moving scenery outside.

When they arrive at Grantaire’s place Grantaire pushes her away when she tries to help her up the stairs, and Enjolras tries not to feel too hurt about it. This is the last chance she’ll give herself, Enjolras thinks privately. If she tries to do anything more, she might hurt Grantaire again.

She’s just here to say her piece. She’s just here to make the last few months _ mean _ something to both of them.

Grantaire ambles to the kitchenette and pours herself a glass of water. Enjolras quietly turns on the lights and Grantaire flinches slightly.

“Sorry.” Enjolras mutters.

Grantaire sighs heavily. “Just go, Enjolras. You’ve done your duty, congratulations. Pretty sure I’ve maxed out my luck when it comes to you.”

Enjolras leans against the wall, biting her lower lip. Grantaire finishes her drink and rinses the glass, putting it on the drainer.

“Can we talk?” Enjolras asks.

Grantaire leans against the counter of the kitchenette, but doesn’t meet her gaze. “There’s nothing more I can say to you. Haven’t I disappointed you enough?”

Something erupts inside Enjolras. “I don’t understand!” She exclaims, “I want to help you, but you’re the one who put us in this place!”

“It’s not-” Grantaire rubs a hand over her face. “It was just- It was just too much. Having you, and then having- all these- thoughts, these demons- I- I bit off more than I could chew, and you- I just got so tired. I got so tired of being the only one trying.”

Enjolras stares at her, unable to keep the despair on her face. She’s never seen Grantaire be so defeated, so_ hopeless_, and Enjolras doesn’t know what to say.

Grantaire hunches her back, stares at the wall. “I know we started our relationship on the wrong foot,” she says. “I don’t know how to make up for it. At then I just thought - if I could have you for one night, then I could die happy. I didn’t need more than that.”

“Grantaire-” Enjolras interjects sofly, but Grantaire shakes her head and Enjolras falls silent. Enjolras has a mad desire to reach a hand out and tuck her wayward curls behind her ear for her, but Grantaire still isn’t looking at her.

“Just listen.” Grantaire continues. “Let me talk, and then you can go. You gave me so much, and I thought, I thought one night was okay, but you kept coming back and I couldn’t keep away, and I got so greedy. You asked for a relationship, Enjolras, but it seemed that all you wanted from it was sex. Why would you? And just once, maybe, I thought this was, this was something I could have, you know? But then- Do you like me, or do you like the sex?”

Enjolras chews on her lower lip as Grantaire speaks. “Do you want me to answer that? Now?” she answers, “are you done?”

She’s eager to say her own piece, but the last three words makes Grantaire recoil and say, “You can go if you want. Thanks for taking care of me.” Enjolras instantly panics and she wants to reach out, wants to grasp onto Grantaire and let her know that Enjolras _ doesn’t _ want to leave, but she doesn’t know if she still has the right to do that. Instead her hands twitch at her side as she takes a small step forward, catching Grantaire’s attention and making the other woman meet her gaze.

“Fuck, R, this is what I’m talking about.” Enjolras says slowly, picking her words carefully. “I know I’m not the best at this... relationship thing. This emotion thing. Sex was - sex with you was great, is great, and I don’t know what else I could do for you. I’m not good at, at taking care of people, I always say the wrong thing, I don’t know what else to-”

Grantaire’s hand makes an aborted motion, like she too wants to hold onto Enjolras, but she stops it halfway, and instead Enjolras’ name leaves Grantaire’s lips, a half-plea.

“I just don’t know what else I could do for you,” Enjolras plows on, and, taking a deep breath, “I love you so much and I didn’t want you to leave me, I didn’t mean to make you feel like that was all I wanted from you-”

The tears rush out towards the latter half of her speech and the end of her sentence comes out garbled. Enjolras is flushing from the humiliation of how ugly she must look like this, fat tears running over her face, her vision blurry, droplets falling onto the front of her dress and splashing against the tiles of Grantaire’s kitchen.

But then Grantaire does reach for her, crosses the small space, her strong arms tugging Enjolras into her hold, pressing Enjolras’ face into her shirt and letting the tears soak through. “Fuck,” Grantaire swears quietly but urgently, “Don’t cry, Enj, please don’t cry.”

“I only-” Enjolras has to push herself away from Grantaire to stop her words from being muffled, and Grantaire’s hands drop, wringing them anxiously. Enjolras wants them back around her, but she _ has _ to tell Grantaire everything before any more misunderstandings brew between them.

“I only saw you - every month, and then you’d be gone, and then I realized you knew who I was the whole time, but you never came up to me- I didn’t know how I could make you stay.” Enjolras forces out.

“Enj, I-” Enjolras shakes her head at Grantaire’s interruption, just letting the words that she’s always been too afraid to say pour out of her as she watches the damp patch on her dress grow. “I’m sorry I made you feel like I was- that I didn’t respect you, that I didn’t love you- I’m sorry. I just- maybe I just don’t deserve-” The tears are falling violently now, and Enjolras presses the heels of her palms against her eyes, trying to stem the flow to no avail. “I just don’t deserve-”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence!” Grantaire snaps forcefully, and Enjolras jolts up to see the other woman staring at her with an intent look in her eyes, dark and fierce.

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.” Grantaire repeats, and this time her face crumples and the words are shaky, and she reaches for Enjolras again. Enjolras curls into Grantaire, gripping onto her waist, sinking into her warmth. They stay like this for a long time, until they've both calmed down and their tears have dried up again.

“But I hurt you.” Enjolras finally says in a small voice.

“Look,” Grantaire sighs without heat, “Enj- we should talk.”

“I thought talking is what we are doing right now?” Enjolras can’t resist saying, and it brings a small but genuine smile onto Grantaire’s face. Her grip on Enjolras tightens.

“No, just-” The older woman says, “Just listen to me first, okay?” Enjolras nods against Grantaire’s shoulder. “Did you realize what you just said to me?” Grantaire asks tentatively. Enjolras blinks uncertainly, forcing herself to step back and meet Grantaire’s gaze. Both of them grimace as they part.

“I guess?” She murmurs, “Didn’t I say a lot of things?”

Grantaire gives her a smile, but it wavers a little bit in the way Enjolras hates. “You said you loved me.”

“I love you.” Enjolras quickly blurts out, clenching her fists, “I love you. Present tense.”

Grantaire exhales shakily, her hands twitching slightly as if struggling to reach out for Enjolras again, to envelop her in her hold. Her voice is soft and tender, raw and vulnerable. “Fuck, do you even know what it means?”

A smile blossoms on Enjolras’ face involuntarily. “Ouch.” She says, chuckling a little. Her face feels stiff from being tear-splotched. The ends of Grantaire’s mouth twitches as well in response. “Okay, okay, I didn’t mean to insult your English,” She says, “I’m saying is - are you saying you love me, or are you saying you love me being your girlfriend? You love me having sex with you?”

Enjolras forces the smile to stay on her face, to reach out for Grantaire. She had never known, had never noticed that Grantaire would think of herself in such a way, like Enjolras could have stopped herself from falling in love with every part of her. “Isn’t that included?” She asks in a gentle voice instead.

“Do you love me,” Grantaire asks again, the expression of fear becoming more obvious on her. “Or do you love the idea of me? The R that approaches you in clubs, that flirts with you, that has sex with you - because me - Grantaire - I’m just a loser. And everytime I do loser things you get mad at me.”

Enjolras takes a deep breath, having a faint feeling that if she fucks up now, she’ll lose Grantaire forever. “I love you.” She says, and it comes out with more conviction than she had intended, but not in dishonesty. “I think I can be a fair judge of my own feelings. I love it when you kiss me, when you flirt with me. I love it when you listen to me in meetings, I love it when you argue with me about politics, even if it infuriates me. And yes, I get mad, but I get mad at the things you do, but not at you. Do you understand the distinction? I could never get mad at you.”

There’s something hopeful blossoming in Grantaire’s expression, but it’s all too fragile, all too fleeting. “Explain it more?” she says hesitatingly.

Enjolras takes in another deep breath. “Look. You call me Aphrodite, and I hate it. I hate it because I’m not her. I’m not perfect, I make mistakes, I’m not pretty, I’m not- I’m not sexy, I don’t know how to flirt, I don’t even know how to- how to treat you right. I’m afraid one day you’re realize I’m just- I’m not her, you know? But the way you look at me, the way you talk to me - I realized its okay if I wasn’t perfect? That with you, you didn’t care if I did all things right, you didn’t care if I, if I got a good grade or whatever. That you call me Aphrodite not because you hold me to that standard, but because that’s just what I mean to you? Does that make sense?”

Grantaire doesn’t look certain, but she nods.

“It’s the same for me,” Enjolras continues, “I love you, R. I know who you are. If it was just sex,” she laughs weakly, “I’m sure Courf would be more than happy to provide it for me.” Grantaire snorts. “She wouldn’t.”

“No she wouldn’t.” Enjolras exhales with relief, “But you know what I mean.”

Grantaire reaches out for Enjolras, a little bit like determination in her features. Enjolras ducks out of the way cheekily, before grasping Grantaire by the wrist and leading her to the bed. They sit side by side on the mattress, and Enjolras shuffles closer until they’re sitting next to each other at the edge of the mattress, Enjolras half on Grantaire’s lap. “You love me for my sarcastic wit.” Grantaire whispers against her mouth, her eyes searching. 

“I just love you.” Enjolras punctuates this with a kiss. The more she says it the more it flows naturally off her tongue, as easy as breathing. She missed this, even though it had only been a few hours. The physical touch, the intimacy. Grantaire’s presence. The way Grantaire touches her, reverent but not hesitant, gentle yet possessive. “I love everything about you. I’ll tell you I love you everyday if that makes up for even a fraction of the hurt I did to you.”

Grantaire murmurs her name, raw and soft. Her kisses grow more heated as she presses Enjolras down onto the bed, bracketing Enjolras with her presence. They are pressed so close together that Enjolras can scarcely breathe.

When they part, Grantaire lies down next to Enjolras, and she curls up instinctively towards Grantaire’s warmth. The events of the day has caught up with both of them, and she yawns against Grantaire’s shoulder. She hears Grantaire chuckle softly, then she's getting up to turn the lights off. “Where do we go from here?” Enjolras whispers, watching her return in the darkness.

Grantaire pauses, then gets back into bed and pulls the covers over both of them. “When we wake up I’m calling my sponsor,” She says, matter-of-fact. “I tell him how bad I’ve fucked up. After that we go out for coffee. At the Musain.”

“Yes.” Enjolras says in a rush. “We’ll do that. We’ll start over.”

She can feel Grantaire’s smile in the dark, and she snuggles closer to the other woman. “I’m sorry, too.” She hears Grantaire say, “I’m sorry for doing all this to myself.” Enjolras shakes her head minutely and only clutches to her tightly.

They’re both in their dirty, sweaty clothes they wore in the club, and there is the faint annoying smell of alcohol still clinging to both of them. They’re going to wake up tomorrow uncomfortable because they didn’t shower or brush their teeth the night before, and they’ll argue over who gets the bathroom first before both squeezing into the small space and fucking against the tiles.

They’ll still argue, they’ll still fight, but they’ll always return to one another at the end of the day. There’s a long conversation they’ll need about Grantaire’s tendencies towards co-dependence and over-reliance, and Enjolras’ overthinking and insensitivity, but it’ll be a conversation they’ll have for as many times they need until they get this right.

They’ll start over, and this time, it’ll last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sO much crying and dialogue in this chapter i swear this is not my usual writing style  
anyway hmu @ twitter @hornet394 and tumblr with the same handle! Leave kudos and comments!
> 
> An epilogue to go and then i can focus on my porn fics OTL


	6. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A house party.

“You’re late!” Courfeyrac screams as soon as Enjolras steps into the house. “Sorry, sorry,” She mutters, taking off her scarf and coat, “Got held back by the professor.”

“Drink!” Courfeyrac continues to scream in her face, shoving a glass of something into her hands as soon as they’re free. Courfeyrac is already half way to drunk, her top already gone. A glance around the room sees Courf’s shirt draped around Jehan’s neck like a scarf. Montparnasse looks vaguely uncomfortable with all the half-naked girls in the room, which is both surprising and hilarious.

Everyone else is halfway gone already, even Combeferre, her shirt riding up to reveal more than what Combeferre is normally comfortable with, but with the way a half-way intoxicated Eponine is groping Combeferre’s belly and thighs by, while mumbling praises about how cute Combeferre is, Enjolras thinks Combeferre won’t regret getting sloshed in the morning.

“Should we get them out before they give us a show?” Feuilly materializes next to her. Her red hair is tied in a loose braid that’s already fraying, a big glass of something in her hands. “Neither of them are as drunk as they pretend to be,” Enjolras laughs quietly, “They’ll be fine.”

Feuilly raises her eyebrows and takes a big gulp of her drink. “Your girlfriend’s hiding in the kitchen,” She says, patting Enjolras on the shoulder, “We all know who you’re actually here for.”

Just to spite her, Enjolras hangs off Feuilly’s shoulders for a good few minutes, forcing the other woman to waddle around with a deadweight clinging to her side. Bahorel starts pelting popcorn on Enjolras and she finally lets go, shaking the food out of hair in mock rage.

Grantaire is sitting on the kitchen countertop, chatting to Cosette and Marius with a glass of water in her hands. Enjolras knocks against the doorframe, alerting the three of them. The smile that spreads naturally across Grantaire’s face makes Enjolras’ heart flutter giddily.

“Hey.” She says, nodding to Cosette and Marius as they excuse themselves from the room.

“Aphrodite,” Grantaire responds with a quirk of her lips, patting the counter next to her, “Enjoying the party?”

Enjolras goes over obligingly, leaning against Grantaire’s legs and puts the glass of whatever Courfeyrac gave her down on the countertop. “I just got here.” She says, “Lamarque wanted to talk about my presentation. How long have you been hiding in here?”

“Just a bit,” Grantaire replies, “It was boring without you to distract me. Everyone just wanted to drink and do nothing else. It’s great that I’m dating the only other person in the group who doesn’t drink.” Grantaire crooks a smile at her. 

“I do drink!” Enjolras squawks indignantly, but rests her head on Grantaire’s waist. 

“Cider and beer don’t count, Enjy,” Grantaire laughs, helping Enjolras up onto the countertop and rearranging them so Grantaire is leaning against the wall, and Enjolras sitting sideways in Grantaire’s lap. “This is good.” Enjolras says quietly.

Bahorel and Feuilly staggers in for drink refills and flips them off, so Enjolras sticks her tongue out at them immaturely. “This is good.” Grantaire repeats, and Enjolras can hear the smile in her voice. Enjolras presses a light kiss on the corner of Grantaire’s mouth, clinging tighter to her for everyone to see. 

Combeferre and Eponine stumble in, Eponine practically crushing the taller girl into the wall with the ferocity of her kiss. “They’re definitely not  _ that _ drunk.” Enjolras allows. “I don’t know about Combeferre, but drunk Eponine doesn’t look like this.” Grantaire supplies, raising her voice deliberately.

Both Combeferre and Eponine freeze momentarily.

“R!” Enjolras hisses, trying but failing to keep a straight face, “Don’t blow their cover.” Her last words are muffled as she buries her face in Grantaire’s shirt to avoid her giggles from coming out.

Combeferre colours violently and yanks her shirt back down, eyes frantically darting around for the closest door. But Eponine just grabs her by the wrist and leads a furiously blushing Combeferre out, flipping off Enjolras and Grantaire as they leave.

“People keep being mean to us.” Enjolras comments, “Maybe we should stop talking to them.”

When Grantaire laughs Enjolras can feel the vibrations underneath her. For now she’s content to stay like this, her little oasis of peace, while her friends are just in the next room, loyal and noisy and caring.

“I should have asked a long while ago...” she breaks the silence, overcome with a sudden wave of curiosity, “But why Aphrodite?”

Grantaire looks down on her, tilting her head slightly to one side. “Only the goddess of love could love something like me.” The other woman teases, but it’s still cold enough that Enjolras sits up immediately. “R.” She scolds, “Don’t.”

Grantaire rubs her arm reassuringly, the amusement clear in her eyes. “Just kidding, Enj, just kidding.”

“Still.” Enjolras huffs, then she leans back against Grantaire and says, “You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to.”

“Nah, I don’t mind,” Grantaire says weakly, “I just don’t know how to put it.”

Enjolras squeezes her arm lightly and lets her think.

“It’s just...” Grantaire finally says, “When I first saw you, when I heard the words that came from your mouth - I could hear your conviction, your belief, your strength. You have so much love for the world and for our future that you never stop fighting for it, even when the world doesn’t deserve it. And I thought, I thought to myself, then, if there was a reason I was created, it was so that I could meet you.”

Enjolras can only look up at Grantaire with wonder, thinking once again how lucky she is to have Grantaire in her life, to have Grantaire look at her like that, like Enjolras is deserving of everything that Grantaire had to offer. It’s terrifying but more than that it’s heady, it’s thrilling, and it makes Enjolras want to never let go.

“I love you.” She says, and before Grantaire can say it back she leans forward and pours all of this out in a close-mouthed kiss. Grantaire answers with the same fervour, the same commitment, the same promise.

“Come out with me to hang out with our friends?” Enjolras asks when they part, still in Grantaire’s arms.

“Yeah,” She replies, “But before that-”

They kiss and kiss until Courfeyrac interrupts them and drags them out, and even then all they want is to kiss each other again, until there is no more space left for words, until it is just them, understanding each other, loving each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand that's a wrap my dudes! hmu on twitter or tumblr @hornet394  
Working on some c/c/e porn and combeferre harem porn, alongside some fics with /actual/ /plot/  
Thanks for all the kudos, comments, and support :)

**Author's Note:**

> i knoW i'm suppose to writing my c/c/r/e fic but in my defense this was started wayyyyy before that one lmao  
This only has 5 chapters, I'm almost done with ch3 but I'm a super slow writer so expect the next update in two or three weeks? idk
> 
> Please leave comments and kudos if you liked it!
> 
> hmu on twitter @hornet394 :)


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